


black ribbons

by CareyElizabeth



Series: two's company [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Ballet, F/F, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-27 09:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 71,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6279967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CareyElizabeth/pseuds/CareyElizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘You hit me in the face. So not only am I the best choreographer in the world, you owe me. And I need you to chill out.’ Anya came to crouch beside Lexa and squeezed her shoulder bracingly. ‘You’re the best. We all know it. And if you dance like you’re scared all the time, you’ll lose that. You have a gift. Don’t screw it up, not now, not like this.’</p><p>(Lexa is a ballerina back from injury. Clarke is a fashion designer commissioned to do the costumes. Anya is a choreographer who thrives on awkward interactions.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Lexa would never have dreamed of missing company class. Company class had been the one constant, every morning like clockwork, since her first day as an apprentice dancer. Company class was monotonous. Company class was undemanding. Company class was familiar, and it was so unlike the rest of Lexa's day that she treasured it; ninety minutes for her body to wake up, for her exhausted muscles to uncurl and lengthen after being crammed into awkward spaces on the subway, for her concentration to click gradually into place with every flex of her foot or sweep of her arm.

All this meant that she was mildly annoyed to be called out, but when Indra summoned, you went, especially since the ballet-master was an even greater company class enthusiast than Lexa. In Lexa's first ever warm-up with Indra, aged twelve, one girl had refused to do barre exercises in case it inhibited her creative vision, and Indra had physically removed her from the room. She had been Lexa's favourite ballet-master ever since, and Lexa knew, because Indra showed her even less affection than the rest of the dancers, that the fondness was reciprocated.

The shorter woman looked her up and down as soon as she entered the studio. ‘How is your ankle today?’

‘Fine.’

‘Lexa.’

‘It's _fine_. Really. I saw the physio before class, and she's happy. Nothing to worry about.’ Lexa looked Indra directly in the eye as she dumped her shoe-bag, daring her to object, but she knew that she would be out of the fall season in a heartbeat if Indra saw so much as a flicker of pain. ‘You wanted to see me?’

Indra nodded across the studio, where a dark-haired dancer in a black leotard was fiddling with the ribbons on her pointe shoes. ‘Yes. Her name is Octavia. Kane saw her, somewhere, and wants me to look at her for an apprenticeship. Octavia!’ The girl jogged over obediently. ‘This is Lexa, one of our principals.’

‘I know who you are.’

Indra was only willing to accept attitude in certain forms, but evidently this one didn’t bother her. ‘Good. I need to step out for a moment, so Lexa, I thought you might do some final warm ups with Octavia. Tell her about the company, answer her questions. Be nice.’

‘I’m always nice.’

‘Often, yes. In the morning, no.’

The door closed behind her, leaving the two dancers stranded in the middle of the studio. Lexa, suddenly finding herself to be the responsible adult and taken aback as always by Indra’s whirlwind tactics, shook herself mentally and gestured towards the barre. ‘Is there anything particular you’d like to do? What’s your routine like?’

‘Not really. I’ll follow you.’

 _Helpful_. Lexa hated early mornings themselves only slightly less than she hated early-morning chattiness, optimism or sympathy, but Octavia’s abruptness still took her off-balance. She felt at home in the studio, even more so than she did on stage or in her own tiny apartment, but there was something very alien about warming up with a complete stranger. It reminded her of being at the school, of being a lower-ranked dancer, when she had treated every exercise as a performance because she had so much to prove.

But she was now twenty-two, and she had been a principal since she was nineteen, and she was really fucking good at exercises. So that was all right.

‘You’re not from the school?’ she tried eventually, because it seemed like the friendly thing to do.

‘No.’ Octavia’s reply was curt, as Lexa had expected, but she met the ballerina’s eyes in the mirror and went on unwillingly. ‘I study performing arts, at the moment. Started ballet when I was twelve but never fully specialised. Then Marcus Kane saw me in our summer show and set this up.’

‘That was nice of him.’

‘Yeah.’

 _Two out, three in, two out, three in, front, back, side, front..._ ‘This is a good place. The ballet staff are tough, but you need that. Indra can be terrifying, but she’s the best.’

‘Good.’

There was another measure of silence, and after a moment Lexa shrugged and let herself find the familiar rhythm of lifts and lowerings, stretches and curls. Octavia was watching her with intense concentration, and Lexa was about to make one more effort at small-talk when, to her surprise, the younger dancer got there first. ‘Hey, can I ask you something?’

‘Sure.’

‘How did you know that you were good at this? Originally, I mean?’

The question caught Lexa off-guard, making her freeze for a heartbeat at the top of a dégagé. _I’ve always known. Most of the time. Sometimes I’m still not really sure._ ‘Nothing special. I mean, there was no thunderbolt, or anything. I started, and I liked it, so I kept going. My teacher sent me to audition at the school when I was twelve, they took me, here I am. Just...the usual sort of thing.’ She caught sight of Octavia biting her lip as they turned round to work the other leg. ‘Why do you ask?’

They got through another whole set of repetitions before Octavia replied, mumbling it almost inaudibly. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here.’

‘Do you want to be here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to join the company?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then start with that.’ Lexa hesitated, aware of being too sore and too tired to be emotionally intelligent; afraid of saying too much, or not enough. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. You might have started late, but your basics look good. You’ve been given this chance. You might as well take it.’

‘I want to.’ Shoes rustled across floor in the quiet. ‘Ballet was my favourite, as soon as I started it, but no one ever told me I was good enough to do it like this. Professionally, I mean. No one ever thought of putting me in the school.’

Lexa stared at Octavia’s back, suddenly realizing what a weird turn her morning had taken, when she heard the door open at the end of the corridor outside. By the time her thoughts caught up with her instincts, she was already speaking. ‘All right. Listen very carefully. Your hands are boring. Indra likes to see all the fingers separated, like this.’ She picked up Octavia’s right hand briskly and demonstrated at lightning speed. ‘She’s also a big fan of necks and head placement, so you want your hair up. Here’s an elastic. No, don’t argue, just do.’ Footsteps approached the studio as Octavia closed her mouth and did as she was told. ‘Make everything twice as big as you normally would. Don’t stop if you make a mistake. Remember you have a face.’

‘Remember _what -_ ’

‘Finished?’ Indra, purposeful as ever, had no intention of wasting more time. ‘Do you have your music? Good. Dance it through once. Don’t stop, even if you make a mistake.’

Octavia blinked at Lexa, who raised her eyebrows – _See?_ – and followed Indra to the side of the room. ‘Do I get paid extra for baby-sitting?’

‘You do not. It was - ’

‘- a formative experience, yes, I know.’ _Formative experiences_ were Indra’s third-favourite thing, after separated fingers and elegant head placement. The music began, and Lexa was strangely proud to see that the younger dancer’s own fingers were pristine. ‘Indra?’

‘What?’

‘I refuse to believe you called me out of class just to lead a warm-up.’

Indra ignored her, her eyes never leaving the dance. ‘She’s talented, isn’t she?’

‘I think so.’

‘Nice fingers.’ The ballet-master shot her former student a knowing look. ‘I wanted her to meet you. She reminds me a lot of you. Before you got good.’

‘This must be why people are constantly saying how warm and appreciative you are. I was starting to wonder.’

‘I am appreciative when you give me something to appreciate. Like that. That was promising.’ Indra sketched the line of Octavia’s leap in the air, a perfect split come and gone. ‘Do you remember the first time you moved up into the senior class? You were fourteen, and I had you all do that combination from _Romeo and Juliet_.’

Lexa instinctively rehearsed the steps in her head. ‘I was terrible.’

‘But you tried, and you weren’t afraid of it. You always _looked_ as though you knew what you were doing. Right until you fell out of that pirouette.’

The ballerina felt the prickle of remembered embarrassment, of being tiny and precocious – and newly incompetent - in a room of long-limbed, disdainful seventeen-year-olds. ‘It didn’t feel that way.’

‘It never does. It starts from the face. Conquer your face, and your body will follow.’ Indra pursed her lips in what Lexa knew to be her version, during teaching hours, of a smile. ‘Is she trainable, would you say?’

‘I think so.’ Even as she spoke, Octavia corrected her finger positioning in mid-air, halfway through another leap. ‘Yes. She is.’

‘Very well.’ Indra clapped once; Octavia fell to earth, disorientated, disappointed. ‘I wasn’t finished.’

‘I know. But that previous passage was clumsy. Show me again, and this time _think._ Even if the steps are easy, the expression is not.’

Lexa always enjoyed watching the ballet-masters at work. There was something artistic in its own right about the way they noticed and demonstrated and improved; something beautiful and satisfying about a dancer understanding a correction and performing the step perfectly for the first time. Indra was a wonderful teacher – she had been the one to finally show fourteen-year-old Lexa how _not_ to fall out of that pirouette – and Octavia, pushing down her doubts, was desperate to learn. Lexa could have snuck out back to class, but she realized that, for the first time since her injury had forced her to sit out, she was content just watching the process.

It was only ten or so minutes before Indra gave a final, decisive nod. ‘Very well. We will take you. You can start today.’

Octavia looked, somehow, both utterly steamrollered and utterly thrilled. ‘What? _Today_ today?’

‘Why not? The sooner the better. You have a lot to fix.’ Indra turned to Lexa. ‘What is your first rehearsal?’

‘ _Duo Concertant_ with you and Murphy.’

‘Please take Octavia to the shoe room and then the end of class before you go. She can learn Capulets and _Nutcracker_ today, and Kane can work out a full schedule for her this afternoon.’ Her voice floated behind them as Octavia scrambled for her things and followed Lexa out the door. ‘Don’t be late. You’re so behind that I may be forced to have you perform in the dark.’

***

Before arriving through the stage door that morning, it had been a long time since Octavia had ‘done’ shy. She had never lacked confidence, she had a low tolerance for bullshit, and life was too short to be cute about getting what you wanted.

But now that her dream had come true, she was almost afraid to speak.

If that wasn’t enough, the girl holding doors open for her, gesturing her into elevators, pointing out studios and changing-rooms, was _Lexa Woods._ Lexa Woods belonged on posters, on billboards, in _Vogue_ and _Vanity Fair_ and the rest of the fancy magazines that Octavia only read while she was having her hair cut. But there she had been, standing at the barre in leggings and a k. d. lang t-shirt, all eyes and jawline and soft, dark hair. And, even before she'd grabbed Octavia’s hand and reshaped it into an exaggerated claw to make her point, Octavia had noticed that her fingers were just as long and lovely and expressive in person as they had looked on the page. Standing next to her, actually _dancing next to her_ , had been a confusing mixture of hoping to find something to criticise and being relieved when she couldn't.

They had headed for the shoe-room as Indra had instructed, and Lexa was now sorting methodically through pigeonholes full of new pointe shoes, checking names and numbers. ‘You’ll have to try out other people’s shoes for now. Here are all the ones in your size - take a few, and you can see what you like. They’ll ask you for your specification, later, and then they’ll be made for you and put in one of these pigeonholes for you to collect.’

Staring down the rows of pigeonholes, each full of shoes in all their spotless satin glory, the adrenaline of the audition wore off; the reality of the owners of the shoes, doubtless all as beautiful and talented as the ballerina next to her, dawned in its place. ‘Oh _shit.’_

‘What?’

‘I can't do this.’ Octavia gazed down at her armful of shoes, genuinely appalled. ‘I mean, I _can’t_. I don’t have the experience. I don’t have the training. I won’t be able to keep up.’

Lexa looked at her for a moment, head tilted, then reached out calmly and took the shoes. ‘Fine. I’ll show you the way out on my way to my rehearsal. Thanks for coming in, though. It’s been a real blast.’

Whatever Octavia had been expecting her to do, it wasn’t that. ‘What? Is that it? You’re not going to, like, persuade me not to?’

‘Why should I? You think you can’t do this? Then go. Walk out of here and get back to whatever you were doing yesterday.’

‘Easy for you to say.’

Lexa’s eyes narrowed. ‘Excuse me?’

‘This is not a _problem_ for people like you.’ Octavia was suddenly conscious, too late, of having crossed a line. ‘You don’t have to worry about keeping up, or not being good enough. Natural fucking brilliance is like that.’

‘Oh, for the love of…’ Lexa stepped forward and shoved the shoes back into Octavia’s arms. ‘Firstly, I’m going to pretend that you’re not being utterly intolerable, because you’re clearly undergoing a personal crisis and I have neither the time nor the aptitude to counsel you. Secondly, I also don’t have the time for you to reach this conclusion by yourself, so I’m just going to suggest that you ask yourself whether Indra would hire someone who, as you put it, _can’t_ .’ Octavia shook her head silently. ‘Exactly. You don’t have the experience. You don’t have the training. And you won’t be able to keep up, not at first. But none of that means you _can’t_. Thirdly, you’re allowed one freak-out when you join the company. That was it. Now you’re going to take these damn shoes and get to class, and be as fierce as Indra thinks you are.’

In what she sensed was becoming a theme, Octavia did as Lexa told her.

They made their way up to the largest studio, where the corps de ballet were being rehearsed, mostly in silence, but Octavia touched the ballerina’s arm as they reached it. ‘Hey. Thanks. Look, I didn’t mean what I said. About you and your…’

‘Natural fucking brilliance?’

‘Er, yes. That.’

‘It’s not the worst insult I’ve ever heard.’

‘Sure. Well, good. Thanks again.’

‘I did mean what I said. This is going to be the worst day of your dancing life. But you _can._ 'Lexa met her eyes steadily before she turned to open the door. 'Be fierce.'

***

‘You look like shit,’ announced Anya aggravatingly, pristine in expensive athleticwear and blow-dried ponytail, as Lexa trailed into the studio. ‘Let me guess. Indra?’

Lexa muttered something about _damn choreographers_ and _just because you're_ _allergic to sweat_ and lay full-length on the floor. ‘She's just found a new disciple and it's made her even more fanatical than usual. My blisters have blisters. But she's stopped threatening to cancel the ballet, so that's something.’

‘How's Murphy?’

‘Growing on me. Slowly. Who’ve I got for this one?’

‘Lincoln, but I think you’ll do a solo first, before he comes on. People have missed having you on stage.’ Anya looked down at the dancer, with one of her unexpected moments of tenderness. ‘Injury sucks, huh?’

‘You would know.’ Lexa rolled over to stretch. ‘I just...it’s scary, right? Every jump could be my last.’

‘You're literally the most dramatic person I know, and I've met that Italian guy from Dancing with the Stars.’

‘You know the physiology. This is crazy dangerous. I did everything right, took every precaution, warmed up properly, and I still landed funny and took myself out. What if it happens again?’

Anya sighed. ‘Remember what you said the other night? When you had, like, six shots while I was in the bathroom and I came back to find you doing the splits on the bar?’

‘Only because you'd already let me drink my bodyweight in wine.’

‘Say it.’ The ballerina flopped over elegantly and mumbled something inaudible. ‘I can't hear you.’

Lexa lifted her head with a martyred expression. ‘You're the best choreographer in the whole world and I'll do anything for you, because Art needs us.’

Anya nodded solemnly. ‘Because Art needs us. And then...?’

‘And then I pretended to swoon artistically and hit you in the face.’

‘You hit me in the face. So not only am I the best choreographer in the world, you _owe_ me. And I need you to chill out.’ Anya came to crouch beside Lexa and squeezed her shoulder bracingly. ‘You’re the best. We all know it. And if you dance like you’re scared all the time, you’ll lose that. You have a gift. Don’t screw it up, not now, not like this.’

Dancers got used to being given pep talks in the most unglamorous circumstances; in anonymous physio rooms, or dripping with sweat in the middle of backbreaking rehearsals, or, as now, practically passed out on floors. But this time - _is this because of Octavia?_ \- Lexa suddenly realized how much she still needed Anya. The older girl had been assigned as her peer mentor on her first day at the ballet school, and Lexa, lonely and daunted by the responsibility of fulfilling her promise, had clung to her. She was still lonely, still daunted, but it had been a long time since she had admitted it to herself. While she was injured, she had made very sure to think of anything and everything else.

It had been an odd sort of day.

She didn’t say any of this - they had always communicated best without words - but she took the hand that Anya offered to help her up, and squeezed it slightly as she made her way over to the barre to stretch out. ‘Let’s get to work then. Dazzle me, maestro.’

Anya rolled her eyes, but - for once - she was smiling. ‘Well, you’re in luck, because this piece is ballerina Christmas. They’ve commissioned new music, new choreography from me, new costumes from some hotshot fashion designer.' The smile faded. 'So no pressure, champ, but this has got to be good.’


	2. Chapter Two

‘I'm dying,’ wheezed Clarke. ‘Seriously, O. Vision blurring. Black spots. Let me go.’

‘No. You know how this works. I'm a squeezer. When I'm happy, I squeeze.’ Octavia refused to loosen the hug and her voice stayed muffled in Clarke's shoulder. ‘I'm just...I’m _so_ happy, Griff. I never thought they'd take me.’

‘I'm - so - proud - of you.’ Clarke managed to sneak in a lungful of air. ‘It means the world to see you get this. I know how hard you’ve worked.’

‘It’s only just beginning. Oh, man, those rehearsals.’ After one final squeeze, Clarke was finally permitted to usher her friend beyond the front door of the apartment. ‘Everything hurts. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. But she did warn me it would be.’

‘She?’

‘ _Lexa Woods.’_ The dancer flopped onto the couch and looked as though she was planning to take root. ‘I know you won't know who she is, but take it from me, she's the best there is. She’s your age, give or take, but she was some kind of child prodigy. Joined the company at fifteen, soloist at seventeen, principal on her nineteenth birthday, and oh my god, Clarke, she is perfect. I only saw her doing barre sets, no actual dancing, but she's so light, everything is just so extended, and her _hair,_ it’s like it was bestowed personally by Jesus...why are you smiling?’

‘No reason.’

‘I hate you.’

‘Yeah, well, we both know that’s a lie. If you must know, I’m smiling because, one,’ Clarke held up a finger as she reached for the wine glasses, ‘I’d be a bad friend if I didn’t enjoy watching you fangirl adorably over your new woman-crush. And two, because actually I do know who she is.’

‘Shut up.’ Octavia was surprised enough to raise her head from the cushions. ‘Really? How? Your knowledge of ballet is, like, almost literally zero.’

‘I have hidden depths.’

‘Sure, but I’m going to take serious offence if you’ve suddenly gotten into ballet because you saw Lexa Woods somewhere and thought she was hot. Which I would totally understand, by the way, except that you’ve known me for years and until yesterday you thought a plié was an endangered animal.’

‘I stand by that. It totally sounds like some kind of special dolphin. There’s a reason, I promise. Just come over here and look.’

Clarke waved a corkscrew towards a picture stuck near the fridge. She did have her own studio, technically, but she had always been terrible at switching off once she got home.  Apart from the huge windows which covered one side of the main open-plan area, she had covered almost all the available wall space with photos, fabric samples, even patches of paint, grouped by inspiration or commission. This particular picture was a black and white full-page shot, torn out of one of the stack of magazines she had been couriered when she accepted her most recent job. It was from some feature on the principal dancers at Octavia’s new company, but Clarke had liked this photo best; the girl was suspended in mid-air in a perfect split, dark hair fanning out behind her, simultaneously powerful and utterly delicate.

Octavia prised herself off the couch, peered at the photo, and looked up in outrage. ‘That's her! That's Lexa!’

‘I know, genius. It’s captioned.’

‘But she’s _my_ woman-crush.’

‘We can negotiate for visitation rights.’

‘Seriously? I finally get to meet my idol only to find that you’ve already adopted her as your muse?’

Clarke handed Octavia a glass of champagne and clinked it against her own in celebration. ‘You didn’t just _meet_ her, O, you’re going to be working together. I’d call that a win. Was she nice?’

‘Yeees. I suppose so. I mean, I freaked out and wanted to quit roughly five minutes after I was offered the job, and she talked-slash-bullied me out of it. Just kind of _looked_ at me for a second and agreed that I should get out if I really wasn’t good enough, so I stayed. I guess you could call that tough love, right?’

‘She played on your pride? I like her already.’ The designer stared thoughtfully at the ballerina frozen on the wall in front of her, unexpectedly made flesh and blood by Octavia’s words, and at the odds and ends stuck around the picture: the image of a woman’s collarbone from some ad, a swatch of iridescent dark blue chiffon she’d found lying around the studio, a black ribbon from a box of chocolates. All anchors for those sudden flashes of inspiration which, now, she had to turn into something real.

Octavia had seemingly read her mind. ‘So are you going to tell me what Lexa Woods is doing on your wall?’

‘Well. Yes.’ Clarke fiddled with the stem of her glass. ‘The thing is, O, she’s not just my muse. She’s my model.’

‘She’s your _what_?’

‘I’m designing something on her. Costumes.’

‘Right.’

‘For the fall gala.’

‘You were booked by my dream company, the company I was auditioning for, and you didn’t think to mention it?’ There was a silence that lasted slightly too long as Octavia took a large gulp of her champagne, eyes tightening. ‘Why not? Because you thought I wouldn’t get in?’

‘ _No_ .’ Clarke shook her head vehemently. She had considered the possibility. She had wondered, for a second, how she’d handle it if Octavia failed and Clarke ended up working for the company anyway, but then she’d realized that she genuinely couldn’t see Octavia failing at something she wanted so badly. ‘It was only confirmed yesterday. She’s been injured, apparently? They wanted to check she was healthy before I started work on it, in case they had to swap in another dancer. That’s all it was, I swear. I might know _literally zero_ about ballet, but I do know you, and Octavia Blake works too damn hard not to get what she wants.’ She waggled the open bottle tentatively, like a peace offering. ‘See? The champagne was already chilling. Long before you showed up and told me the good news.’

Octavia hesitated, finishing her glassful, then nodded abruptly. ‘I know. Sorry. It's just…’ She waved a hand aimlessly, half frustrated, half amazed. ‘I can’t believe I _did_ get in. I really did want to quit. You should see it, Clarke. It’s like being twelve again, when they put me in the beginner’s class with the six-year-olds. Everyone is so talented, and they work so hard, and I totally lost it.’

‘But you didn’t quit. You chose to try. That has to count for something.’

‘Oh, sure. Ten out of ten for effort. Go me.’

‘I’m serious, O.’ Clarke squeezed Octavia’s hand reassuringly as she topped up the dancer’s glass. ‘Even this Lexa probably loses it sometimes. Just think about that when you're having a bad day.’

Octavia snorted. ‘For Lexa Woods, “losing it” probably means momentarily doubting whether you really are the best dancer in the world. Or getting a bad haircut.’

***

Much as Clarke hated to admit it, Octavia was right; her knowledge of ballet was slim to none. She had told Kane as much when he called to offer her the commission, but it hadn't seemed to bother him. ‘Most of the designers we work with from the fashion world have never done a ballet before. Come and watch a rehearsal, once we've got the details ironed out, and that'll give you an idea of what we need. I’m not worried.’

Clarke now realized, with a feeling of being very out of her depth, that _I'm not worried_ were three of the most dangerous words in the English language _._ She, personally, was getting more and more worried the deeper she got into the ballet company’s main premises. An extremely hot receptionist had greeted her at the desk of the company’s main building. An extremely hot intern had been summoned to show her around, where they passed hordes of extremely hot people who somehow managed to make legwarmers and sweats look stunningly attractive. Clarke was pretty hot herself, and knew it, but that place was enough to make anyone doubt their looks, their talent, and generally everything about themselves.

‘Here we are,’ announced the intern brightly, bringing them to a stop outside a pair of double doors. Clarke could hear music and, through the glass panes, see tantalising glimpses of movement. ‘I just wanted to say, it’s _super_ cool to meet you. This is my first fall gala, and everyone’s super excited about it. It’s, like, already sold out. I mean, with you and Lexa Woods, it can’t not be awesome.’

 _I am an award-winning creative mind who does not need validation from an intern,_ Clarke told herself sternly, but the confidence boost was secretly welcome as she pushed the door open. An unfamiliar woman with blonde hair was pointing a remote control at a sound system while a brunette - _Lexa Woods, she’s the best there is_  - circled slowly, eyes closed. Clarke watched for a moment, fascinated, as the ballerina visualized steps, graceful even in abbreviated spins and casual arm movements, before lifting up into a perfectly poised arabesque.

_Well, damn._

The door closed behind her with a thud. Lexa Woods descended elegantly from her balance and opened her eyes, raising an eyebrow as she waited for Clarke to state her business. The designer stuck out a hand and the dancer took it, firmly but briefly. ‘I’m Clarke Griffin. I’m designing the costumes for this piece. Marcus Kane said I could stop by, get an idea of where you’re going with it.’

‘Sure. Lexa Woods.’

‘Yes, I know.’

Clarke had googled her, for research, she had her picture on the wall; she knew what Lexa looked like, so it was a surprise to find that she liked her better in person. The cut of her jawline was even sharper in real life, the sweep of her neck even more remarkable, her eyes even bigger, but the bits in between the lines were softer when unfiltered by camera or stage makeup. Lovely skin, dark hair in a messy bun that looked about to collapse, eyes confusingly halfway between blue and green. There was a stillness about her that surprised Clarke, just because she had looked so _right_ in motion, but there was nothing _wrong_ about the stillness either. She nodded at Clarke but didn’t say anything else, and that was strangely comfortable. The artist in Clarke was content just to look.

The designer only realized that they had been staring at each other in silence when she heard a meaningful cough from the blonde woman, who suddenly looked as though she was enjoying herself hugely. ‘And I'm Anya, the choreographer. Not to interrupt this beautiful moment, Lex, but my genius isn't going to reach you telepathically.’

They got back to work, and Clarke watched from a chair she pulled up next to Anya’s. Sometimes Anya sat and described what she was thinking, sometimes she got up to demonstrate; in between, she let Clarke ask questions about the music or the movements, although her critical gaze never left Lexa. Clarke watched, and sketched, and listened. Some of her designs created themselves more easily than others - she always started with lines, reducing the wearers almost to stick figures, exploring the drape and direction and structure of the garment - but this time she kept thinking of that photo she had shown Octavia. ‘Does her hair have to be up?’

The choreographer opened her mouth, but this time Lexa herself cut in, arms folded, polite but unmistakably irritated. ‘No. It’s an artistic choice. Feel free to decide between you.’

‘I think it would be better down.’

‘Fine.'

‘Just try it,’ said Anya hastily, looking from one to the other. ‘Do that combination again and see how it feels.’

Lexa pulled her hair down without a word, carding her hands through it briefly to shake out the curls, and began to retrace the steps. Clarke watched, grateful for the professional excuse to stare - _bestowed personally by Jesus, I’ll say_ \- and felt the flowing lines of _something_ start to take shape in her mind’s eye. She reached blindly for her sketchpad. ‘That does look better.’

The ballerina came to a halt in front of them and shook her head curtly. ‘Maybe, but it’s totally impractical. I’m getting a mouthful of hair whenever I turn around.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Lex, just stay still. That’s an easy fix.’ The choreographer got up stiffly and began to braid back the front sections of Lexa’s hair. ‘Don’t mind my unhelpful friend, Ms Griffin. She's always been particular. Remember when you did the Sweets from _The Nutcracker_ for that showcase, in the candy-cane tutus, and you lowkey threw a tantrum because you ended up a red candy-cane and wanted to be a green one?’

Lexa muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like _I'm going to kill you later._ Out loud, she said ‘For one thing, I was twelve. For another, I won the green tutu off Echo fair and square and she knew it.’

‘When you say you won it…’

‘Monopoly.’

‘I should have known. She’s a beast at board games,’ added Anya, glancing towards Clarke again with a suspiciously gleeful expression. ‘One time she had a physical fight with Jasper Jordan over whether “grrl” was allowed in Scrabble. Literally grabbed his hair and -’

‘Anya, _shut up_.’

‘Why? It’s endearing, in a murderous sort of way.’ She pinned the braids together and stood back. ‘There, that’ll keep it out of your face. Acceptable?’

Clarke didn’t realize that Anya meant the question for her until Lexa did an ironic little spin to show her the new style. ‘Oh. Yes, sure. It’s just to get the effect.’ She hesitated, thrown by the ballerina’s carefully neutral expression. ‘Look, this is the first time I’ve designed for dancers. I hope I wasn’t out of line to ask.’

‘All part of the job. Right?’ Anya raised her eyebrows at Lexa, but the younger woman had turned away to walk through the combination again. The choreographer shrugged and unholstered the remote control. ‘Suit yourself. From the top.’

***

‘ _...combined study at institutes in New York and Milan with internships at Giambattista Valli and Proenza Schouler and a stint as a correspondent for Vogue...artist’s eye_ ... _The plaudits rushed in for the effortless lines and fluid shapes of Griffin’s fall collection at New York fashion week, and a brace of upcoming projects will keep all eyes on this exciting young designer,’_ read Lexa, scrolling through her phone. ‘I'll admit it, she sounds impressive. But she doesn't have a clue about this.’

Anya shrugged dismissively as she fiddled with the coffee machine in the dancers’ canteen. ‘The fashion designers never do. Remember watching the fall gala when they did _La Sylphide_ , and Alexander McQueen did the costumes? Plaid everywhere? It was Indra’s last season dancing, and she told me he tried to make her wear high-heeled pointe shoes.’

‘You're joking.’

‘Indra has no sense of humour. Count your blessings, kiddo, at least Griffin doesn’t seem to be quite that…visionary.’ They sat down at one of the tables and Anya looked at her speculatively. ‘What was the matter with you back there?’

‘Nothing,’ Lexa replied out of habit, fully aware that she rarely bothered to keep anything from Anya for long and - probably - that Anya would find a way even if she tried.

The older woman snorted. ‘I know you’re not the chirpiest bird in the tree, but you usually manage to be a bit more charming than you were just now. Spill.’

The ballerina sighed inwardly, burned her tongue on a Dutch-courage sip of coffee, and braced herself for the storm. ‘My ankle hurt earlier.’

‘Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Lexa.’ Anya looked so furious that, for an incredulous second, Lexa thought she was actually going to get up out of her seat and do something regrettable. ‘When? If it was hurting and you carried on rehearsing I'm going to fucking kill you -’

‘Anya -’

‘You don't get to do this, Lex. Got it? You don't get to fuck around because you're too stubborn to ask for a break. I haven't stuck around all this time just for you to flame out like I did.’

‘You didn't _flame out_ , Anya, you broke your leg,’ snapped Lexa suddenly, too on-edge to deal with anyone’s self-dramatizing but her own. ‘And if you want me to deal with my injury, then you have to fucking deal with yours as well. You may be a moron, but what you think does actually matter to me.’

Anya still looked thoroughly angry, but she did sit back, and her occasional, reluctant tenderness found its way into her expression. ‘I do what I do. Anyway, don’t change the subject. Tell me about your damn ankle, and make sure I like what I hear.’

‘Or what?’

‘Or I’ll tell the sexy fashion designer more embarrassing stories about baby Lexa.’

‘You’re a horrible mentor.’

‘You’re a moody brat.’

‘I could swear you used to be nicer to me.’ Lexa sighed deep enough to sail a ship and pushed a hand through her hair. ‘It’s okay, I promise. It was fine by the time I actually got here. It just woke up aching, and I stayed in bed as long as I could hoping it would stop. Scared to put any weight on it.’ She shifted in her seat, aware of having messed up. ‘I slept on it funny. That’s all. But it scared the hell out of me, so I let it ruin my day, and I shouldn’t have done that.’

‘No. You shouldn’t.’ Anya drained the last of her coffee and stood. ‘Better get back to work before Indra comes in from her two-thirty. She wants this choreo finished yesterday. Listen, Lex -’ She cut Lexa off and forced their eyes to meet over the trashcan. ‘Always back yourself to know when something’s wrong. I’m going to take you to see my physio. She’ll tell you you’re an idiot, but then she’ll fix you. And next time the sexy fashion designer comes in you’re going to apologize for being such a dick. That’s if you haven’t scared her away for good.’

‘You were always the scary one.’

‘You don’t hear what the others say about you. I have taught you well.’

Lexa had always hated apologizing, but then she thought about golden hair and a sketchpad, and decided that maybe it wasn’t the worst idea in the world.

 


	3. Chapter Three

Clarke didn't appear at Lexa’s rehearsals with Anya for the next couple of weeks, and Lexa, to Anya’s visible delight, didn't quite manage to look as though this didn't bother her.

‘I know your tell,’ the choreographer observed solemnly, after Lexa asked if _that_ _designer_ was coming and pretended not to care when the answer was no. ‘You have a special moping face. Your eyes get all huge and tragic. Like a dog, or a Pixar character.’

‘It's because I have to apologize. You know how I am with apologizing. I don't like having it hanging over me.’

‘Believe me, I remember. But it definitely isn't the whole truth.’

‘It is.’

‘It isn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because _that designer_ is insanely hot and you’re too gay to function.’

Lexa looked up from tying her new shoes and fixed the choreographer with the death-glare known in the company as ‘the Anya’. ‘You make it sound like I throw myself at every passably attractive woman who crosses my path.’

‘Oh, honey. The opposite. You just pine and overanalyse and think you look all stoic when actually you look mopey. And that’s exactly what you’re doing now.’ Anya’s eyes followed Lexa critically as the dancer straightened up and tried a few steps to check the fit. ‘Frankly, it would be good for your health if you did do a bit more throwing. More fun for me, too.’

‘It’s not a spectator sport.’

‘Hey, kiddo, I’ve been keeping you straight for ten years. I deserve a little fun.’

‘If you were meant to be _keeping me straight…’_

‘...then I failed spectacularly, yes, I know. Hilarious. You know what I mean.’ Anya sat down briskly and folded her arms, suddenly all business. ‘OK, let's get to work. Some journalist is coming tomorrow, so I want to get your solo locked down.’

The new ballet was coming together fast, and Lexa had rarely been so happy in the studio. The joy of being able to dance again was so fierce that it almost scared her. _This is me_ , she realized, in the split-second of weightlessness at the apex of a jump, _this is what I was waiting for_. She loved being choreographed on, too, almost more than anything else she did on stage. It was rare and wonderful to be the first to do a part, with no one comparing her to the last great company ballerina, or the one before, or the ones who had been legends since before Lexa was even born. Anya knew what suited her. These steps were hers, and she danced them like herself.

If she was totally honest, that was really why she had been such a brat to Clarke Griffin. Even without the worry over her ankle, she wasn’t used to creatives talking about her as though she wasn’t there. She knew, logically, that fashion designers weren’t used to their models having opinions, but it had been irritating all the same. Especially - _damn you, Anya_ \- because this fashion designer really was insanely hot, and Lexa really was too gay to function.

She was disciplined enough and happy enough to concentrate while she was dancing, but another thought struck her as they finished up. ‘How did you know she wasn’t coming today?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’ Anya leaned back luxuriously in her chair and somehow managed to look even more smug than she had at the start of the rehearsal. ‘She texted me.’

‘She texted you.’

‘Yeah. It’s like carrier pigeons, only quicker and without the feathers.’

‘Har har. No, I mean she texted _you_. You two text. Recreationally.’

‘I wouldn't have said _recreationally._ We’re partners in a groundbreaking creative venture. Obviously we have to have each other's numbers,’ shrugged Anya. ‘Why would she need yours? You're just the dumb muscle.’

Lexa took a deep breath and counted to ten, then to fifteen just to be safe. ‘Can I have it?’

‘ _May_ I.’

‘I’m going to rip your head off and watch Indra dance on your grave.’

‘You were always my favourite.’

‘I learned from the best.’

‘And don’t you forget it. You may have the number when you admit why you really want it.’

‘And what,’ commented Lexa with exquisite politeness, ‘is that supposed to mean?’

Anya shot her a knowing look. ‘OK, genius. You want to play dumb, carry on. Remember that physio I was talking about the other week?’

‘...No.’

‘I know that's a lie so I'm going to ignore it. I've managed to get you an appointment. It’s today. And I'm taking you, to make sure you don't play hooky.’

The dancer leaned against the wall and sketched a tendu sequence sheepishly with her foot. ‘I was really hoping you'd forgotten.’

‘I never forget anything where your porcelain ankle is concerned.’

‘It's better.’

‘Then there's no harm in my friend taking a look at it.’

Lexa gave in and poked the choreographer bad-temperedly in the chest. ‘Heartless. You are literally heartless. There’s just a void, right there. You’d probably rattle if I shook you.’

‘I do have a heart,’ Anya started to protest as they left the studio. ‘I have the heart of a child. In a jar, on my desk...’

***

Lexa generally considered herself to be a brave person. She had doubts and fears, she worried and fretted on the inside, but she had learned from Indra that her face could do the work of fooling the outside world. She cared about what the other dancers thought of her, but she made damn sure they never knew it. Hell, she had even gritted her teeth and gotten on with it when stupid _Vogue_ forced her to pose with a stupid swan for a stupid photoshoot. It turned out that a totally rational hatred of swans was really fucking inconvenient for a ballerina.

She still had days where she couldn’t fool people, and the prospect of going to see yet another physio had just turned today into one of them. Lexa Woods did not like doctors. Titus the marketing director, who looked increasingly haggard and despairing every time she saw him, never missed an opportunity to mention her _professional responsibility to look after your body_ , but it was difficult when you were pathologically stubborn and severely allergic to complaining. Nearly seven years after joining the company, she was still learning not to fight through pain.

She walked Anya to reception, attempted some last-minute denial and bargaining, was cornered into acceptance, and did what she always did in such situations: she snagged a horrible cup of tea from the canteen and stalked upstairs, to a disused closet-sized office overlooking a rooftop and some pigeons, where she could stew in peace.

Only this time, Octavia Blake was already there.

‘Holy -’ Lexa skidded to a halt and only just managed to avoid getting tea all over herself. ‘What are you doing? No one’s ever in here.’

‘Chill out, _Commander_ , it's just a room.’

Octavia looked really strange. She didn't quite seem nervous, not quite worried, just slightly too on-edge to pull off the snark. Lexa manoeuvred carefully into the tiny space and sat down opposite her. ‘I thought I saw you going to lunch with the rest of the corps?’

The younger dancer nodded gloomily. ‘Indra grabbed me as we were going in.’

‘They'll still be there, you know. Harper is the slowest eater in the world.’

‘Yeah.’

She made no move to get up and Lexa looked at her curiously. ‘Are you hiding?’

‘No.’ Octavia met her gaze defiantly for a moment, but then her shoulders dropped. ‘Would you think I was a total loser if I said yes?’

‘When I first arrived at the school, Anya had to physically force me to socialize.’

‘You were twelve.’

‘True. I get it, though. It’s tough being the new girl.’

‘It’s not that I’m scared of them, or anything. They’re friendly. We’re friends, I think. It’s just…’ She broke off and bit her lip. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘D’you want to talk about it?’

‘Not really.’

‘Why don’t we get some food?’ Octavia eyed her suspiciously and Lexa held her hands up. ‘Just food, I swear. I’m not a shrink.’

‘No, but I have a nasty feeling you’re gonna get all responsible on my ass, and that’s way worse.’

***

The weather was making like it was still August, and the sidewalk was hazy as they turned out of the stage door. September had been Lexa’s favourite month since she first came to the city at twelve. She liked the smoky smell in the air at the tail end of summer, she liked sweaters and scarves, she liked building the new ballets for the fall gala. The feeling of anticipation that the dancers got in September reminded her of her first week at the school, when the new kids had been allowed to come and watch just one company class, and she had seen Indra and Kane starting to rehearse what would be their last roles together. In that warm, precise moment, stepping out into the sunlight with Octavia following her, Lexa felt both the familiarity of that tradition and the breathless uncertainty of creating something new.

There was a park two blocks down, and a deli on the way which managed to keep avocado and kale interesting even for Lexa, who saw them as two of the five staple food groups. The kids were in school and the park was too boring for tourists, so there was plenty of space for the two dancers to kick off their shoes and lie on the grass, their aching feet cooling in the spray from the fountains.

Lexa's phone buzzed with a text from Anya just as her mind was beginning to get pleasantly blank. _Coming by at 5. Don't be late. If you're good I might take you for ice cream._

‘You look kind of peaky. What's up?’

Lexa tapped her fingers thoughtfully against her salad bowl - _come on, Woods, you're not going to get something for nothing -_ and decided to tell her. ‘I have to go and see a physio later. About my ankle.’

‘Still playing up?’

‘Not badly. That’s not really the problem.’

Octavia nodded wisely. ‘You're scared of doctors.’

‘Isn't everyone?’

‘Nah. My best friend's mom is a doctor. Our teddy bears had surgery, like, twice a week. Why are you scared of them?’

The older dancer sighed and gazed up at the sky, looking for an explanation that wouldn’t sound pathetic. ‘They might say something’s wrong,’ was all she managed, eventually. ‘And I guess I don’t want to hear it.’

‘Better than something being wrong and no one telling you.’ Octavia munched steadily for a while, then tried to sound casual. ‘You know Maya just tore everything in her knee?’

Lexa had had entire nightmares just about ACLs, so sympathy came easy. ‘How long is she out for?’

‘Months.’ She paused. Lexa waited. ‘Anyway, she was going to be doing _Interplay_ , and Indra wants to put me in to replace her.’

‘In this company, Indra doesn't _want_ , she _does_.’

‘OK, fine. She's put me in.’

With a flash of familiarity, Lexa started to see where this was going. ‘It’s not the end of the world. _Interplay_ isn’t that bad.’

‘God, no. It’s not that, it’s -’ Octavia broke off and blinked. ‘Oh. You’re kidding. You know, I genuinely didn’t expect you to have a sense of humour.’

‘I have my moments.’

‘It's a featured role. She’s given me a featured role, and I feel like a fraud, so I hid.’ The younger dancer pulled up some grass resentfully. ‘It sounds so weak now I say it, you know? I shouldn’t be out here. I _wouldn’t_ be out here, usually. I don’t hide from people. I don’t run away. Except now I do. Remember my first day, when you had to stop me?’ Lexa nodded, and the younger dancer turned to face her, determined to make her understand. ‘I love being here, at the company, but I don’t want it to turn me into a weak person.’

‘Why do you feel like a fraud?’

Octavia looked taken aback for a second. ‘Because Indra could have picked literally anyone else, and they’d be amazing. They’re all so talented, and they’ve worked so hard, and they’ve been at the company longer. They deserve it.’

‘That’s not how it works.’ Lexa sighed and lay back against the grass. ‘ And the sooner you realize it, the easier it’ll be.’

***

_‘You don’t remind me of anyone but yourself,’ Indra had said suddenly, just as Lexa was practically out the door. ‘I think that’s it. That’s why.’ And then, before Lexa had a chance to ask what she meant, she nodded briskly and gestured a dismissal. ‘Back to class, and don’t let up. School is easy. Tomorrow, we start making you into what you are meant to be.’_

_It wasn’t unknown. It did happen. Girls did join the company at fifteen. Lexa reminded herself of it again and again as she headed across to the studio -_ it happens, it happens, it’s not special - _but the joy bubbled up inside her anyway, lifting her along, and she realized that she was smiling so hard her face ached. She hadn’t messed up. No one was disappointed. She had made it._

_But she got back to class, and it was obvious from the way the other girls’ eyes slid over her that they knew why she’d been called out. It would have been easier, from Lexa’s point of view, if they’d been bitches about it - she was good at staring people down, even at fifteen - but instead they congratulated her, and tried unsuccessfully not to look sad. They were seventeen and eighteen, most of them, even some nineteen-year-olds being given one last chance to make it into the company. Every single one was talented, every single one had put the hours in, all of them had sacrificed their childhoods and danced their way into stress fractures because they were trying so hard. They deserved everything she was getting._

_‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said Anya, half amused, half irritated, when Lexa told her. ‘Ballet’s not like...accountancy, or, Christ, I don’t know. Bank managing. There are no rewards for long service.’_

_‘Anya, everyone in that class can do what I can do.’_

_The intercom announced the stage warm-up. Anya should have gone - she was in the corps, dancing two different ballets that evening - but she ignored it. ‘If you break it down into steps, sure. Everyone in that class can physically do a Balcony pas de deux. Not everyone can make an audience believe they’re Romeo and Juliet.’ She put her hands on Lexa’s shoulders and looked her in the eye. ‘Lex, you’ve been told all your life that you’re super talented. Here’s the deal. You are. I’ve been doing arabesques since I was nine, but when you do one, I watch. You’re different. I can’t explain why, and I don’t think I’d want to, but you are.’_

_‘I don’t remind you of anyone but myself.’ So that was what she had meant._

_‘Exactly. You’re one in a million, kiddo, and you deserve this spot as much as anyone.’ Anya smiled, one of her rare, real smiles, and only then did it turn into her usual smirk. ‘Essentially, it’ll only be unfair if you’re shit.’_

***

‘Lexa? What’s not how it works?’

Lexa opened her eyes. ‘Ballet. It’s not like that. There are no rewards for long service.’ It might be a second-hand pep talk, but it had worked before. ‘If you’re good enough, you’re good enough. Indra thinks you are, and that’s all I need to hear.’

It didn’t really need a response, and they both knew it. They lay there in the sun, warm and silent, until it was time to head back to rehearsals, and then Octavia straightened up and clicked out her back. ‘I’m having a birthday party.’

‘Good?’

‘You should come.’ She said it offhandedly, but it sounded like her way of saying thank you. ‘Bring your scary friend along, if you like.’

‘My scary - oh, Anya. She’ll be delighted. She loves it when people acknowledge how fearsome she is.’ Lexa looked the younger dancer in the eye, almost self-conscious as she found out how it felt to _be_ Anya, fumbling her way into being half as encouraging and safe as Anya had always been for her. ‘You OK?’

‘Yeah. You?’

‘Yeah.’ She hopped up neatly and offered Octavia a hand. ‘Let’s get back in there.’

***

‘It's catching at the front, right? When you do a squat or whatever you guys call it?’

‘Plié,’ translated Anya wearily.

‘Sure, that. Thought so.’ The physio grinned and put Lexa’s foot down gently. ‘Point your toe for me. Jesus, Anya, look at her muscles!’

‘Raven, you’re drooling.’

‘What? I'm a physio. I love muscles the way a fat kid loves cake. There’s nothing sexual about it.’ She winked at Lexa. ‘Well, maybe slightly sexual. Anya has my number.’

‘ _Raven_.’

‘Sorry, sorry. She’s right, I should give it to you myself.’

Lexa forgot to be scared, after that. It was impossible not to enjoy Anya getting teased by a super-smart woman with warm, reassuring hands and so many diplomas on the wall that Lexa had lost count. They had met in physical therapy, after Anya broke her leg, and Anya seemed better - lighter - in Raven’s company. She didn’t seem, as she sometimes did in the studio, as though she thought she should be apologizing for something and was refusing to do it. She groaned and rolled her eyes whenever Raven made a joke or Lexa dodged medical questions, but there was no hard edge to it. The ballerina watched, and hid smiles, and was hopeful.

Lexa tried to pay as they left, but Raven waved it away. ‘Any friend of Anya’s is a friend of mine. Although that does mean you might have to put up with a tiny, _tiny_ bit of unprofessional flirting. And anyway…’ She cleared her throat, self-conscious. ‘She sent me some videos of you. You _need_ to be able to dance. Losing my leg sucked, but at least my genius is in my brain.’

‘She’s right,’ Anya said bluntly once they were out of the building, swinging round on the sidewalk so abruptly that Lexa almost crashed into her. ‘That’s why I wanted you to come. I know you hate it, but you were born for this, Lex, and I just want you to be OK. That’s what I do.’

‘I know.’ She meant it - _I know why you made me come, I know that you want me to be OK, I know that I wouldn’t be nearly as OK as I am without you -_ but it wasn’t enough. She reached out and hugged her instead, very sincerely; and she knew that Anya understood, because Anya always understood.

The choreographer gave her a last squeeze before letting her go, and held out her hand just as Lexa was about to leave to catch her subway. ‘Wait. Give me your phone.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Giving you your reward. Take it before I change my mind.’ Anya tapped in a few numbers and handed it back. ‘It’s Griffin’s. Call her.’


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. That finale, huh.

**_The Closet_ ** **podcast, September 10 2016**

The Closet _: ...and on top of that you’re designing the costumes for the City Ballet fall gala, is that right?_

_Clarke Griffin: Not all the costumes, but yeah, I’m doing the designs for a new commission. It’s really cool, I'm honored to have been asked._

TC _: Is that, like, a bit of a departure for you? I mean, these dancers are basically athletes, so are you having to adjust into, I don’t know, a bit of a sportswear mindset?_

_CG: [laughs] Oh my god, I’m just clueless about the whole thing. I haven’t done ballet since I was four, I think? And I tripped over my own feet and fell on my ass and quit on the spot. But I went to a rehearsal and Anya Hunter, the choreographer, she was great about explaining stuff to me, and I got a feel for the movement. They are athletes, absolutely. It was amazing. Seriously, ballerinas have got to be some of the most badass ladies out there._

TC _: And the ballerina you’re designing for is Le -_

_CG: Lexa Woods, yeah._

TC: _The dream._

_CG: Right? I mean, she’s just...remarkable. Like I say, I’ve only been to one rehearsal, but she makes everything look effortless, and her lines are just gorgeous. Legs for days. She’s a real designer’s creature. You could dress her in a sack and she’d look beautiful, she just holds herself that well. [Laughs] Wait wait wait, now you guys will be totally unimpressed by whatever I come up with. What I meant to say was, the girl’s a hag, you wouldn’t believe how tough it is to make her look good..._

***

In her defence, Clarke had been expecting a call from Octavia, but with hindsight it was still a mistake to pick up her phone on the first ring, swipe to answer without seeing who it was, and lead with ‘Sup, bitch.’

There was an uncomfortable silence, during which Clarke, finally checking the mysterious and definitely-definitely-not-Octavia caller ID, closed her eyes and waited for death.

‘I know we didn’t exactly hit it off, but...that was direct.’

She recognized the voice, but not well enough to place it immediately, and her inner pragmatist began to list the many benefits of separate phones for work and personal. _Fuckfuckfuck._ ‘Oh, god, I’m so sorry. It’s really not like that. I was waiting for my friend to call and I -’

‘This is Clarke Griffin, right?’

 _Sexy voice,_ observed Clarke’s less pragmatic half, as she smiled weakly into the abyss. ‘Yes. I mean, it is. Hello.’

‘This is Lexa Woods. From the ballet.’

Of-fucking-course. On a positive note, it wasn’t a client, or at least not someone who was supposed to be paying her. Less positively, it was _Lexa Woods,_ and Clarke had rarely wanted so badly to make a good impression. She pinched the bridge of her nose, told herself to get it together, and sat up slightly straighter. ‘Lexa. What can I do for you?’

‘Anya gave me your number.’

‘Great!’ As soon as the word left her mouth Clarke started to wonder if it had sounded sarcastic, or overly enthusiastic, or both. She filed it away under _things to cringe about later_ , right next to ‘Sup bitch’, and slowly sank back down to lie full length on the couch. ‘I mean, sure. Sorry. I’m really not with it tonight.’

‘Long day?’

‘I’ve been sitting on my ass for the last eight hours, so no, by your standards, probably not.’ She also had nothing to show for it but a few half-finished sketches and enough coffee in her blood to power a small child for a week. ‘Did you need me for anything in particular, or…?’

‘Yes, I did. Listen. Clarke.’ Lexa’s tongue lingered on the last consonant as she paused. Clarke could almost see her gathering her thoughts, intentional, precise. ‘I wanted to apologize. I wasn’t very helpful when you came in the other week. It wasn’t personal, I just...it was a difficult morning. And I didn’t mean to scare you off, or imply that you weren’t welcome in the rehearsals.’ Clarke sensed that the dancer hadn’t finished and waited patiently for more, balancing her project sketchbook against her knees and flipping to a blank page halfway through. ‘That’s all. So. I’m sorry. It was unfair of me.’

‘No! God, no, not at all.’ Clarke shifted the phone into her other hand and grabbed a pencil at random from the pile on the floor next to her. ‘Everyone has bad days. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry too.’

‘You are?’ There was a muted crash and a muffled string of swear words. ‘ _Bloody_ …Don’t mind me. Cat. Ignores me twenty-three hours a day and then when it’s feeding time he decides my feet are the most fascinating things he’s ever seen.’

Clarke, who had vaguely imagined that Lexa’s natural habitat was a theatre dressing room surrounded by flowers and the tasteful kind of fan mail, pictured the ever-graceful ballerina tripping over a cat and laughed aloud. ‘Take a tumble?’

‘No. Dropped his dish. There you go, ungrateful animal. What are you sorry for?’

‘I talked about you as though you weren’t there,’ said Clarke simply. ‘I only realized afterwards. It’s just, this is all so new, and - ’

‘Believe me, that much is obvious.’

‘This is an apology call, isn't it? Doesn't that mean you should be nice to me?’

Lexa drawled down the line in response, unexpectedly but delightfully deadpan. ‘Sorry. I meant, gosh, ma’am, I had no idea. That must be real tough for you.’

Clarke rolled her eyes, but she let her smile come through in her voice as she tried to describe what she meant. ‘My point is, I usually design for models. It all comes out of my inspirations, my feelings, the things I like. It's a nice change to create something for people whose job it is to have ideas, but I didn’t get that straight away. I still need to get used to it.’

There was a soft snort which the designer, feeling oddly victorious, suspected was almost a laugh. ‘You wouldn't prefer a blank canvas?’

‘Not for you.’

Clarke realized as she spoke that she was drawing a familiar jawline, and she shut the sketchbook abruptly. She had been there on the couch so long that it had gotten dark, and it felt strangely intimate to be talking from the middle of the small, warm circle of light from the table lamp. She hurried to explain herself. ‘I've googled you. That is, researched you. And the critics seem to think a hell of a lot of you. It would be a waste not to listen to what you have to say.’

Lexa hummed thoughtfully. ‘Looks like we both played this one wrong.’

‘Looks like it.’

‘You should come back.’ The dancer sounded almost diffident. ‘Come to another rehearsal, unless you’ve got everything you need. Choreographers never get anything finished until the day before the premiere, but maybe designers are different.’

Clarke looked down at the half-finished sketches on her lap and scoffed. ‘I don’t know about finished. I have my ideas set, mostly, but I need to arrange fittings and so on before I can be sure. ASAP, ideally, otherwise there’ll be barely enough time to get them made and this time the stress may kill me.’

Lexa did laugh this time, surprisingly soft and completely charming. Clarke melted. ‘Can’t have that. Just let the ballet staff know when you’re free and they’ll schedule you in.’ She let out a little huff of irritation and the designer suspected that the cat had made his presence felt again. ‘I should go. Goodnight, Clarke.’

‘Goodnight, Lexa.’

Clarke ended the call, feeling a completely ridiculous temptation to say _no, you hang up first_ , and flopped back against the cushions with a sigh, flicking through the pages of hands and shoulders and collarbones in her sketchbook.

***

This time, Clarke refused the extremely hot intern’s offer of help, and somehow found her own way to the rehearsal rooms. It was still so warm that most of the studios had their doors propped open, making the corridor a cacophony of piano music and the raised voices of ballet-masters, but it meant that the designer could linger outside and watch for a moment before she interrupted. Anya had been sending her videos every so often, to keep her familiar with the steps and the movement quality, and it was immeasurably better in person. One moment Lexa was spinning effortlessly in the arms of her partner - Lincoln, Clarke remembered - and the next she was high above his head, elegant and strangely commanding, graceful down to the last fingertip. The footwork was sharper, the arms softer, the necks and faces more delicate than they could ever have been on a smartphone screen. For the first time, Clarke could really _see_ the ballet, could imagine her clothes on stage, knew that it was going to work.

Anya called a halt for a moment to demonstrate a step, and it was Lincoln who spotted Clarke first. ‘We have a visitor.’

Clarke sidled into the studio, reluctant to stop the dancing. ‘Am I early?’

‘Right on time. Linc, this is Clarke Griffin. She gets to decide how much you’ll be wearing on stage, so be nice to her. Clarke, this is Lincoln Eastman.’

Clarke got a pleasantly firm handshake from Lincoln and a small smile from Lexa, and turned back to the choreographer. ‘Listen, the last thing I want to do is interrupt your rehearsing - ’

‘Oh, you’re not. I have it all planned out.’ Anya smiled sweetly. ‘Lex, I thought you could head along to the costume shop with the fairy godmother while I go over that variation with Lincoln, and I’ll send him down after that. Sound good? Thought so. Make her hot, Griffin.’

Clarke heard the ballerina mutter something about _not a makeover_ and _wouldn’t get you to arrange it if it was_ as she collected her shoe-bag, before propping the studio door open with her foot and gesturing the designer through first. ‘Sorry about her, choreographers have no manners. After you.’

Clarke tried and failed to spot Octavia as they passed the other studios, and they went through a rabbit warren of common rooms and corridors of offices before Lexa finally held open the door of the costume shop. The designer stepped in, instantly at home as she heard the whirr of sewing machines and the purr of scissors muffled by rolls upon rolls of fabric, smelt glue and the dry, warm fragrance of textiles, saw the drapers working at their tables and the army of half-clothed dressmakers’ forms.

She turned back to see Lexa looking at her with that same small smile. ‘This more your thing?’

‘I’ll have you know I’m becoming very at home in the ballet world.’

‘I didn’t say you weren’t, Clarke. How much space do you think we’ll need? They’re doing fittings for _Interplay_ this afternoon so we might have to wait for a proper dressing room.’

Clarke peered around a mannequin, which was lounging drunkenly against a flipchart and some precariously-stacked rolls of material, and saw a deserted corner hemmed in by boxes and densely-packed rails of garment-bags. ‘Back here is fine by me? I’ll just measure you up today, if that’s alright. No undressing required.’

She could have sworn that the ballerina quirked an eyebrow at her, but if so it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and Lexa picked her way through the piles of organized chaos with her expression as neutral as ever. ‘Measure away.’

Clarke realized, as she fished her tape measure out of her bag, that the downside of picking a cramped corner to do your measuring - or upside, depending on how you looked at it - was that you couldn’t help but be very, very close to your model. Lexa had been rehearsing with her hair down and braided back, the way Anya had suggested the last time Clarke had been there, but she swept it forward over one shoulder and the designer could see the gleam of sweat at the junction between neck and shoulder, and the smooth shift of her back muscles as she moved. She had really great upper arms, Clarke noted with purely professional appreciation, firmly ignoring the fact that she had never paid the slightest attention to anyone’s upper arms before. It was just measuring - businesslike, straightforward, a necessary means to an end - but learning new bodies was part of designing clothes. Clarke was endlessly fascinated by the way the simplest thing, the flex of a shoulder-blade or the jut of a hipbone, could make something hang differently. While she measured with her hands she was also mapping contours with her head: planning, visualizing, admiring. She noticed how small Lexa’s waist was, the slimness of her hips, how flexible her shoulders were, how her chin was lifted with a quality halfway between poised and stubborn.

For her part, the ballerina clearly wasn't the type who felt the need to fill silences; she stood still, lifted her arms when asked, turned in response to Clarke’s murmured requests and wordless gestures, and let the designer get on with her work. She only spoke when Clarke closed the notebook where she had been writing down the measurements and began to straighten up. ‘You should measure from pointe, too. So you know how it’ll look.’

‘I knew that.’

‘Obviously. I was just reminding you.’

Clarke winked and bent down again. ‘Like I said, totally at home. I’m seriously considering a career change.’

‘I’ll watch my back.’ Lexa lifted up onto pointe effortlessly, and after a beat the designer heard her murmur, ‘This is strange.’

Clarke froze, tape measure suspended. ‘Is everything OK? Should I stop?’

‘Oh, no, it’s fine.’ The ballerina smiled reassuringly. ‘Really. But you know what fittings are usually like. Eight people in a room. Arguments about skirt length. Grinning and bearing it while they stab you with safety pins. This is different.’ She caught Clarke’s eye and gave a lithe shrug. ‘Not bad. Just different. Is that your design?’

‘My - oh, yes.’ It was one of her more recent sketches, crumpled from being in her bag. ‘It’s not finalized yet.’

‘May I see?’

Clarke handed the sheet wordlessly to Lexa, who smoothed it out and studied it carefully. The designer busied herself with the final measurements, trying not to notice how warm the dancer’s skin was beneath her leg-warmers, but eventually the silence made her nervous. ‘So? What do you think?’

Lexa whistled thoughtfully through her teeth. ‘Could you get me a practice skirt?’

‘A what?’

‘A skirt in which to practise.’

‘Helpful. Like, a mock-up? Sure.’

‘Thanks. Just to see how it moves.’ The ballerina traced a fingertip down the design. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘You really think so?’

‘Of course. Did you draw it yourself?’ She grinned at Clarke’s look of indignation. ‘I don’t have the first idea about fashion design. For all I know you’ve got whole teams of artists to do this sort of thing for you.’

‘Wouldn’t that defeat the object? If you couldn’t actually design?’ Clarke stood and deftly re-rolled the tape measure. ‘I love art, I always have. For the longest time I thought I was going to be an artist. Paint things, have exhibitions. Open a gallery if I ever got good.’

Lexa was watching her intently. ‘Why be a fashion designer, then?’

Clarke shrugged. ‘I found I liked the idea of wearable art. You can’t not be affected by clothes. Each piece makes the wearer feel something, but the people who see it can feel something completely different. I like that. The layers.’

‘And this? What do you want me to feel?’

‘Beautiful. Strong. Powerful. But I guess you must feel all that anyway, right?’ Clarke was genuinely surprised when Lexa shook her head. ‘Really? Don’t tell me you still get nervous.’

‘The dancer who doesn’t get nervous is fictional.’ Lexa handed back the design and clicked her back out with a sigh, arms stretched above her. ‘Before I get on stage, not once I'm on. Waiting is always worse. But feeling prepared does help. Feeling...beautiful does help.’

‘Good.’ Clarke swallowed, startled into sincerity as she met the ballerina’s level gaze. ‘I hope you like it. Really.’

‘I look forward to seeing it.’ Lexa checked her phone as she picked up her bag, and let out a little hiccup of laughter. ‘Anya says to hurry up, and also to ask you why you called me a hag.’

Clarke blanched. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Take a look.’

‘ _Clarke Griffin Called Lexa Woods A Hag, But There’s A Reason._ ’ Clarke groaned. ‘Goddammit. I hate Buzzfeed. Did you know they once did a piece on me called _23 Times Clarke Griffin Looked Exactly Like Grumpy Cat_?’ Lexa’s eyes glinted as she took her phone back. ‘You're googling it, aren't you?’

‘Technically I’m going back to the studio to send Lincoln down, but it’s a long walk. I might need some entertainment on the way.’ The ballerina smirked as she navigated gingerly around the makeshift mannequin-flipchart screen and waved her phone mockingly in farewell. ‘I’ll see you around, Clarke.’

***

 **‘Why the ballet is always in fashion’ -** **_City Living_ ** **magazine**

_Christmas this year has come early for Octavia Blake. The last time City Ballet were preparing for their fall season, she was just starting at performing arts college, working two jobs on the side to pay for extra ballet classes. Now, aged nineteen, she is the company's newest apprentice and will be dancing in the fall season herself._

_‘It's a dream come true,’ says Blake, speaking to us before class at 10.30. ‘Last year I got tickets, I was up in the fourth circle watching Lexa and wishing I was down there_. _To actually be on the stage_ ... _I'll believe it when it happens.’_

 _Most of Blake’s fall season will be taken up with the ballet apprentice’s usual fare of bit parts and group numbers, although the stakes were raised suddenly when a colleague suffered an injury halfway through rehearsals: Blake was picked to fill in for her, and will be taking a featured role in Jerome Robbins’s crowd-pleasing_ Interplay _. It’s a baptism of fire for the young dancer._

_‘Terrifying,’ grins Blake, when asked how it feels to come into the spotlight so unexpectedly. ‘I don’t think anyone ever feels ready for their first show, so you just have to get on with it. It’s always scary being pushed, but I guess it’s how you grow.’_

_‘The first night is the worst,’ supplies “Lexa” herself - Lexa Woods, principal dancer with the company. ‘Make it through the first night, and it gets easier every time. Takes the fear out of it. The nerves stay, but the fear goes.’_

_Woods barely needs any introduction. The ballerina has captivated audiences and critics alike since her arrival in the company seven years ago as a stunningly talented fifteen-year-old, and her promotion to principal dancer four years later. It’s no wonder that she was - and continues to be - an inspiration for Blake, just a few years her junior; the younger dancer pays close attention to Woods in the rehearsal room, down to the way she ties her shoes. Both are lithe, graceful brunettes, with the expressive eyes and strong features that work so well in performance, but there the similarities end. Blake is buzzing, open, eager to talk. Woods is less showy - every word is carefully chosen - but she fills a room the way she fills a stage._

_Woods would know a thing or two about baptisms of fire. It seems ridiculous to call her a veteran at 22, but she has already ticked off all the great ballerina roles, including her first_ Swan Lake _when she was only eighteen. ‘Everyone has the technique. Not everyone has the artistry, the dramatic power. We threw her in to see if she swam,’ shrugs Indra Shourona, once a principal with the company and now, with her former dance partner Marcus Kane, joint artistic director. ‘She did. So here she is.’_

_The company has almost literally been Woods’s family since her father Gus, a single dad, was killed in a car wreck when she was eleven. She spent six months in foster care until her ballet teacher managed to sneak her away for an audition at the company’s prestigious boarding school. They offered her a full scholarship, and she never left._

_‘One does not train a dancer because of their circumstances,’ says Shourona briskly. ‘That is the nature of our world. A student can be the hardest worker, can sacrifice the most, can want it more than any of their peers, but that is nothing without talent. Your heart breaks for them, but the talent must be there. That is the way.’_

_Woods will star in several ballets during the company’s fall season, including Kenneth MacMillan’s_ Romeo and Juliet _, George Balanchine’s_ Serenade _and_ Duo Concertant, _and Christopher Wheeldon’s_ Polyphonia _, before opening in_ The Nutcracker _in November, but for the opening gala she and partner Lincoln Eastman are performing a new commission by choreographer Anya Hunter. With costumes from hotly-tipped young fashion designer Clarke Griffin and two of the company’s most exciting stars to work with, this must be a dream project._

_‘For sure,’ says Hunter, sipping her coffee while her colleagues stretch and warm up. ‘No point having brilliant dancers if they look terrible, or vice versa, and no one will be impressed by brilliant choreography if it’s not shown off properly. Obviously terrible choreography was never going to be an issue.’ She grins as Woods and Eastman, across the room, roll their eyes in unison. ‘Seriously, though, I get most of my inspiration from dancers, so it’s great to be working with people I know so well.’_

_Hunter danced with the company herself, alongside both Woods and Eastman, until she broke her leg five years ago, but she laughs when asked if she regrets losing her chance to shine on the stage. ‘Hey, I was a good dancer, nothing more. I was hardly a star.’ Can you tell, that young? ‘Sure. Some dancers take longer to reach their potential, but you always know who's going to get there eventually. I’m not saying I wouldn't have done okay, risen through the ranks, what have you, but I was never going to set the world alight.’ She winks and nods across at Woods, now busy walking through some steps with Eastman. ‘Now that one, let me tell you, she's totally one to watch. You heard it here first.’_

_It is always dangerous to make grand predictions for dancers, who are at the mercy of a profession in which careers can be ruined at a stroke by injury, but Woods - herself on the way back from a major ankle problem - already looks to have claimed her place as one of the few ballerinas who define their generation. She dances the same steps as everyone else, but it is obvious from the nuances - a different angle of the head, a dart of the eyes - that she thinks about them differently. Her command of the stage is extraordinary, and her technique so instinctive that she can concentrate on what really matters: the music, the emotion, and her ever-attentive partner. At first glance Eastman looks more like a football player than a dancer - easily over six feet tall and built to match - but he is a surprisingly good match for Woods, who could have looked impossibly slight in comparison. She is average height but owns every inch of it, while his emotional intelligence far outweighs his size. ‘Big guy, big heart,’ summarizes Hunter, when asked why she chose him to partner the company’s star ballerina. ‘They work well together.’_

_Eastman, now 24, was promoted to principal dancer just last month, in time for the fall season, but he and Woods have been dancing together since they were at school. It’s clear, watching them rehearse, that they trust each other completely. There's no second-guessing, even at a particularly difficult moment when Woods literally has to fall out of a pirouette, at precisely the right moment for Eastman to catch her. They practise it over and over, and she falls without hesitation every time. She knows he'll be there._

_Blake may not yet have had years to forge the same kind of relationship with her fellow dancers, but it’s obvious that she learns quickly, and even more obvious that she is determined to make up for lost time. With that determination, a role model like Woods, and the natural promise that got her noticed in the first place, it shouldn’t take long. For now, she is reluctant to look too far ahead._

_‘Let me get through the gala without falling on my ass, and then we’ll see.’_

_‘It’s all any of us can hope for,’ nods Woods, straight-faced, and the two share a smile._

***

‘Clarke!’

‘Octavia?’ Clarke had sat down on a plastic box marked "tiaras - small", and got up just in time to receive a trademark Blake squeeze. ‘What are you doing here? Did you have a fitting as well?’

‘Yeah. For one of the, like, eight ballets I’m currently learning. Hang on, shouldn’t I be the one asking you that question?’

Clarke gestured pointlessly at the door Lexa had left through. ‘Just measuring. You know. Lexa.’

‘How did it go? Better than last time?’

‘Much.’

‘Told you.’ Octavia nodded, vindicated. ‘I said last time was some kind of weird misunderstanding. She’s not chatty, but she’s probably the most professional person I’ve ever met. Except maybe Indra, but she’s just a machine. Oh!’ She rummaged in her shoe-bag for a magazine and flipped triumphantly to the center pages. ‘Talking of Lexa, I was going to show you tomorrow, but since you’re here now…Look, I’m famous.’

Clarke’s heart swelled to twice its normal size as she saw a picture insert of Octavia, in practice clothes with her hair up, eyes gazing intently into the distance as she completed a pirouette. There were other pictures too: Lexa and Lincoln in the middle of an impossible lift, Octavia putting on her pointe shoes, Anya pointing at something, Lexa balancing, Lincoln jumping, Lexa, Lexa, Lexa. _Christmas this year has come early for Octavia Blake..._

Octavia lounged against the nearest clothes rack. ‘It’s sort of awesome, but mostly embarrassing. Even if it didn’t make me sound like I have the hugest woman-crush on Lexa -’

‘- which you do -’

‘- even if it didn’t, Bell’s already bought a copy for every single person I've ever met, kindergarten upwards. I'm pretty sure he'd hire a billboard if I let him.’

‘He's proud of you,’ said Clarke absently, flipping the page. ‘Give him a break. Did you seriously watch her to see how she tied her shoes? You have got it bad.’

Octavia scowled. ‘I swear that reporter must have been a spy in another life. I know how to tie toe shoes, I just happened to be wondering how she sews hers. She gets a really good fit across the arch.’

‘I am way more respectful of ballerinas than I was a month ago, but I refuse to believe you make your own pointe shoes.’

‘Wouldn't you like to know.’ The dancer grinned wickedly. ‘They come over from England all pretty and shiny in their little packets, and then we hack bits off and go crazy with needles and lighters and glue. Unsupervised. It’s basically fashion vandalism. You'd be appalled.’

Clarke shuddered primly as she finished reading. ‘Can I keep this?’

‘Sure. Bellamy has a whole stack at home for emergencies. Hey, Lincoln.’

The designer looked up to see Lincoln’s head poking around the corner above Octavia’s shoulder. ‘Hey, Octavia. Ms Griffin. Lex said you were over here, but she suggested we see if any of the dressing rooms are free.’ He looked doubtfully at the tiny space. ‘She seemed to think I wouldn’t fit.’

‘They’re mostly free now. I was just in there.’

Clarke watched, intrigued, as Octavia and Lincoln smiled at each other and sidestepped repeatedly into each other’s way, until finally Lincoln moved all the way back to let the two women squeeze past. He noticed the magazine in Clarke’s hand as she thanked him. ‘Were you showing Ms. Griffin the article?’

‘Call me Clarke.’

‘Clarke, then.’ He smiled warmly at her and then even more warmly at Octavia. ‘It’s a great piece. You look beautiful.’

‘I’d say all three of us look pretty hot.’ Octavia shouldered her bag and gave Clarke a brief hug. ‘Go do your thing, I’ll see you at the party tomorrow.’ She paused a split-second and continued slightly too casually. ‘You’re coming, right, Lincoln?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it.’

‘Great.’ The younger dancer waved jauntily as she slipped out the door, ignoring Clarke’s _we’ll-talk-about-this-later_ expression. ‘Don’t forget, Griff. I expect a really excellent birthday present.’

***

The next day was not one of Lexa’s best. Lincoln seemed distracted, Murphy’s sarcasm had just crossed the line between witty and plain pessimistic, and Indra was in one of her foulest moods because her building manager had closed all the stairwells.

‘Faulty _steps_ ,’ she hissed, when Lexa - as usual - arrived first to company class. ‘How can _steps_ be faulty? It is unacceptable. I had to use the elevator this morning.’

‘You do realize, don’t you, that literally no one else would see that as a problem?’

‘Elevators are for people who cannot use stairs, not people who can but choose not to. I’m not quite there yet,’ replied Indra tartly, as the rest of the dancers began to trail in. ‘You are all late. You’d better not be sitting down to sew your shoes because that would make me very, very unhappy.’

Indra was indeed very, very unhappy, and the day did not improve. It had been a long week and everyone was exhausted, wilting in the heat and snapping at each other when footwork was missed or pirouettes fumbled. In one rehearsal Lexa was dropped by her partner and caught half an inch from the floor, in the next she and Lincoln spent half an hour getting worse and worse at a single easy sequence, all while her muscles screamed and her head pounded with music and criticisms and the frustration of nothing going right. The only saving grace was the weekly class she led at the school, but even that lost its appeal when one of the girls got a truly stunning nosebleed, another girl fainted at the sight of the blood, and one of the boys had to sit down.

‘You cannot be serious,’ muttered Lexa, mostly-but-not-completely to herself. ‘Dominic, put your head between your legs. Paige, get the nurse. The rest of you, they don’t need an audience. Keep going. Just don’t jump if you think there’s a chance you might black out in mid-air.’

Astonishingly, unbelievably, it seemed to get hotter as the evening went on, making the subway sticky and airless. Lexa rode six stops with someone’s elbow jabbing painfully into her side, and when she finally made it back to her building there seemed to be twice as many stairs as usual. Once she managed to drag herself through her front door she dropped her keys in the bowl, fed the cat without looking at him, worked her way mechanically down the bottles of tablets lined up neatly on the kitchen windowsill, and lay down on the floor like she always did, legs elevated to decompress. For a moment that stretched into a minute that stretched into five, she thought about the pain and the exhaustion and almost being dropped on her head, and couldn’t remember why the hell she bothered.

Anya answered her call on the first ring. ‘Hey, kid, what's up?’

Lexa lay there, chest tight, trying to decide what to say, when to her horror she felt herself sigh out something perilously like a sob instead.

‘Lex?’

‘Yeah.’ Lexa breathed out once, carefully. ‘I’m here. I just...it was one of those days, you know?’

‘You’d better not mean - ’

‘Oh, my ankle’s fine. Everything else hurts, but the ankle’s peachy.’ It came out even more bitterly than she had intended, and she stared up at the ceiling. She had a moment of miserable clarity, feeling utterly small and dull and pointless, and hugged her side with her other hand. ‘Come out with me.’

There was a silence, and Lexa broke it with more impatience - or desperation - than she usually allowed herself. ‘Anya?’

‘Hey. Sorry, must have dropped off for a second there. I thought you were asking me to do something fun with you. In the evening. Voluntarily. You know, like a normal person.’

‘I'm serious. I had the shittiest day at work and I came home and took vitamins A-through-fucking-Z and eight different supplements, and now I'm spending my evening lying on the floor with my feet on the coffee table even though I have one-two-three- _four_ perfectly good fucking chairs, just so I can go through the whole damn process again next week, and it _sucks,_ Anya. It fucking sucks.’

‘I'm impressed, Woods. You sound almost human.’ Anya’s voice was muffled for a second and Lexa heard the sound of keys. ‘I’ll come over. You really want to go out?’

Lexa traced a pattern in the floorboards with her fingertip. ‘One of the girls at the company is having a birthday party. Octavia, from that magazine interview? She said I could bring my scary friend, which either means you or Murphy, and you’re much prettier.’

‘Damn, Lex, you sure know how to compliment a girl. All right, I'm on my way. Go and put some eyeliner on and have a shot of something,’ instructed Anya. A door slammed. ‘In that order, obviously. I’m nothing if not responsible.’


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out I'm the slowest writer in the world, I'm really sorry, but it's here now! Having a lot of fun writing this and thank you so much for the comments, I'll try to reply to them all sometime today (super late I know, sorry again). 
> 
> I hope you're all doing ok after the terrible events in Orlando. Come visit @southsouthwest if you want to rant about gun control. This is just a bit of fun, but enjoy.

Lexa was still lying on the floor when Anya let herself in, but she heard the cat pad out to greet the newcomer on her behalf.

‘Hey, you grumpy son of a bitch. Oh, sorry, Astro, it's you. I mistook you for the mopey miseryguts on the floor over there.’

Lexa didn't realize how tense she'd been until she felt herself deflate with relief at the sound of Anya's voice. ‘You are the least sympathetic person in the world, you know that?’

‘I'm actually critically renowned for my insight into the human condition. I just have no interest in wallowing.’ There were two muffled clunks as the choreographer shucked off her shoes and appeared in the doorway, with an expression that contradicted her words. 'You okay?’

‘You didn’t have to do this.’

‘Oh, bite me. We both know that’s never stopped either of us before.’ Anya strode purposefully into the kitchen, and Lexa tipped her head up suspiciously in an attempt to see what the sudden clattering and cupboard-banging was in aid of. ‘So. One of those days, huh?’

The dancer spread her arms out wide with a sigh and stretched, crinkling her spine one vertebra at a time. ‘None of it even seems worth mentioning when I actually say it. It’s never going to make a good story. I didn’t fall on my head, quite, or get hurt, or make a fool out of myself.’

‘I’m sure that’s debatable.’

‘I genuinely have no idea why I keep you around.’

‘I assumed it was for my deliberately un-winning personality.’

Lexa smiled despite herself. ‘Clearly. Anyway, everything was just...off. I don’t know if it’s the heat, or it’s that point in the season, but we were all hating it. Going through the motions till we could get out. I called Murphy a dick.’

‘That’s my girl.’

‘And I told Lincoln he was the least musical person I’d ever met.’

‘OK, that was mean.’

‘Exactly, and that’s coming from you of all people. See? I fucked up.’

‘I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that you’re probably not the only person thinking that right now.’ Anya reappeared and squatted down beside Lexa, mug in hand. ‘Drink.’

‘What is it?’

‘Irish coffee. It’s a thing.’

Lexa wriggled upright and sniffed it dubiously. ‘I don’t think Irish coffee is supposed to be mostly whiskey.’

‘It’s your lucky day.’

‘Not if it makes me go blind.’

‘I didn’t distill it myself. I’m not a Prohibition-era alcoholic.’ Anya straightened up with an audible click of joints and headed into the bedroom. ‘I’ll give you fair warning if the bottom drops out of the choreography market and I have to resort to home brewing to make ends meet. Why the fuck is your closet full of sweaters? It was ninety degrees out there today.’

‘I switched in my winter wardrobe when it rained on Wednesday. Optimistically.’

‘Jesus Christ. No one would ever believe you were from the South.’ Silent rummaging. Lexa lay back down and closed her eyes, lulled into a false sense of security by the quiet, only to be hit in the face by a pair of denim cutoffs. ‘Put those on while I find you a jacket. And drink up.’

The dancer peered into the mug, decided that feeding it to the cat would probably kill him, and drank. She had liked whiskey ever since she and Lincoln had had a wee dram - behind Indra’s back - before their first _Romeo and Juliet_ , but Anya’s addition of the bare minimum of coffee didn’t improve it. ‘I’m pretty sure this is what death tastes like.’

‘You’re welcome.’

The dancer leaned back to collect a white t-shirt and some nicer underwear, which Anya had also tossed at her, and finally managed to haul herself upright to change. She blinked in confusion as her head reappeared from under her top. ‘Are you taking a _selfie_?’

‘Why, isn’t my magnificence worthy of preservation?’

‘Last week you said that owning a selfie stick should be a federal crime.’

‘I’m not using a selfie stick, am I?’ Anya tapped a few buttons, grinning, and gestured at the bed without looking up. ‘Hop up here when you’re done and I’ll do your face. I know you think you’re some kind of eyeliner guru, but just remember who made you that way.’

It was like living together again. Lexa had learned very quickly when she arrived at the school that Anya’s affection-disguised-as-irritation was almost parental in its sheer transparency, and it had been utterly typical of the older girl to suddenly need a roommate just when she knew that Lexa wanted to move out of the dorms. It had been hard to live at the school and work on the completely different schedule of the company, but she was still too young to live alone, so it had been Anya she had snapped to after a bad day, Anya who had silently put cups of tea in front of her when she was tired; Anya who had sat up long after they got in from the theater, watching and re-watching recordings from the performance, while Lexa caught up on school. Lexa loved her apartment, because it was small and comfortable and _hers_ , but Anya was ‘home’ enough on her own.

Neither of them were big talkers, and they appreciated that about each other, but it also meant that they could tell the difference between comfortable silence and when something was simply not being said. Anya turned Lexa’s head very gently to start on the other eye and Lexa could feel, even without being able to see, the kind of heavy hesitation that happened right before Anya broached a sensitive subject.

The choreographer cleared her throat delicately, and Lexa’s heart stuttered off-rhythm for a beat. ‘You haven’t mentioned the date.’

The dancer folded her hands methodically in her lap, one after the other. ‘Pinning certain things to certain days is stupid. It's pointless and arbitrary and it was probably invented by the ancient equivalent of the greeting-card industry.’

‘This is just like the time I had to break into the administration office just to find out your birthday.’

'For the record, you did not _have_ to do that, and I still don’t know why I offered to help you clean those changing rooms.’

‘Because you were a sweet kid, that’s why. Which is what makes it such a tragedy that you’re a jaded misanthrope at twenty-two.’ Anya’s hand stilled, and Lexa opened her eyes reluctantly. ‘You do know how proud you should be, right? You’ve done everything we hoped for you and more. This is a good day, Lex. Not a great one, because of how it all began, but still. Ten years. It’s not something to ignore.’

‘I know.’

_‘Lex.’_

‘Really. I do. I just…Whenever I hit some kind of milestone, I always want to feel like I’ve arrived. Every promotion, every anniversary, I want to sit back and look around me and feel like I've got to where I was supposed to go.’ Lexa flopped back on the bed and blew out a long breath at the ceiling. ‘But it's almost like it gets worse. Stop worrying that you’re not good enough for the school, start worrying about being promoted too fast. Stop worrying about being a disappointing child prodigy, start worrying about being a disappointing headliner. The stakes get higher and it gets harder when I thought it would get easier. So. I just ignore it.’

Anya looked at her almost sadly for a moment before lying down beside her. ‘It’s how it is, kid. We’re chasing perfection. You never arrive.’

‘I know. But having a particularly un-perfect day doesn't help.’

‘Oh, Lex.’ The choreographer snorted affectionately. ‘Sometimes even I forget how ridiculously young you are. Just imagine how boring the rest of your life would be if you really had _arrived_ aged twenty-two.’

‘I wouldn’t say boring. I’d have gone with straightforward, or peaceful.’

‘ _Dull_ . You’d be lying here anyway, angsting to me about _is this it_ and _what am I missing_. This isn’t really about that, is it?’ Anya turned her head, and the dancer felt rather than saw the sympathetic intensity of her gaze. ‘You miss your dad.’

Lexa had gotten out of the habit of crying about things after her father died. It wasn't that no one would have tried to help if she had - there was generally some foster parent or a social worker around with a professional obligation to do so - but she wasn't particularly interested in being comforted by strangers. Tearlessness had become second nature, even now when she was called out by Anya’s shrewdness or Lincoln’s compassion, and she was used to getting on with her day even when her eyes burned and her ribs ached with the effort of not caving in. Anya knew that, and rarely pushed, but when she did there was usually no denying what she said. In Lexa’s heart of hearts it was true that she ignored anniversaries, pushed away any reminder of time passing, because the loss and the loneliness were amplified when she realized how long he had been gone.

All she trusted herself to do was nod, but that was the only thing Anya ever needed to read her. ‘Listen, kid. Lexa.’ She reached between them and squeezed the dancer’s hand resolutely. ‘You would never have been disappointing to him. And you would never have been disappointing to me.’

There had been times, ten years ago, when Lexa had sat in her new dorm room and been so overwhelmed that she half-expected someone to come in and see what the fuss was about. It had sometimes been genuinely surprising to realize that she had been sitting there in silence, when everything had been so loud in her head: the bleak, unmendable loss of the life she had had, the crushing responsibility to be worthy of the new one she had been given. Her thoughts had always been big thoughts - duty, promise, greatness - and Anya had steered her gently but firmly back towards focusing on things small enough for her to cope with.

_‘Do you want to be here?’_

_‘Yes.’_

_‘Start there,’ the older girl had said. ‘You’re here, and you’re working hard, so I don’t give a shit if you don’t turn out to be what they expect. You just be you, kid, not who they want you to be. I’ve got your back.’_

It was enough. Lexa felt her limbs lengthen and her muscles loosen, remembered how to forget the failures of her day, resolved to tuck them away where they belonged instead of giving them more significance than they deserved. The small, cold feeling inside her burned out, and with another nod, a return squeeze of Anya’s hand, she was ready to pick herself up and carry on.

‘Feeling better?’

‘My legs will probably stay attached for another few hours.’

Anya sat up and pulled the dancer after her. ‘That's the spirit.’

 

***

 

They couldn’t help but grin as they took the stairs to the Blake apartment, because they could hear the party long before they saw it.

‘Lexa! You actually came!’ yelled Octavia when she saw them appear in the open doorway. ‘ _Mi casa, tu casa,_ or whatever it is. Not so much _casa_ as shitty apartment, but you get the picture. Oh, here, meet my brother, Bellamy. Bell, this is -’

‘Believe me, O, you don’t have to tell me.’ Bellamy shook her hand firmly, and Lexa had a sudden feeling of being under scrutiny. ‘Though I have to say you look kinda different without toe shoes on. It’s nice to meet you.’

‘You too. This is Anya. She’s a groupie.’

‘Fuck off.’ Anya gestured at the almost visible pounding of bass. ‘Don't you have neighbors?’

‘Upstairs is still vacant, downstairs are at some wedding, and Mrs Sullivan across the hall just takes her hearing aid out,’ shouted Octavia. ‘Clarke? Claaaaarke. Get your ass over here, Lexa showed up.’

Lexa racked her brains for some obvious reason for Clarke Griffin to be at Octavia Blake’s birthday party and came up empty, but it was definitely the designer excusing her way through the little crowd of people by the fridge - wine bottle in one hand, glass in the other, hair almost too golden to be real against the black of her dress and the sunglasses still perched on top of her head. It took a moment for Clarke to finish pouring her drink and abandon the bottle on the side, and Lexa only realized she’d been staring the whole time when she felt Anya smirking triumphantly at her.

‘Insanely hot. I rest my case,’ the choreographer murmured in her ear, before turning to Clarke. ‘Hey, Griffin. You can tell me why you’re here later. Right now, I see tequila.’

Octavia plunged after Anya and Bellamy after Octavia, leaving Lexa alone with Clarke and suddenly very conscious of not having anything to do with her hands. ‘Hey. Sorry about Anya, again. Like I said, no manners.’

Clarke chuckled, low and throaty. ‘Do you usually spend this much of your time apologizing for her?’

‘More than you’d think.’ Lexa smiled back. ‘Maybe I should find out why you’re here. You know, on her behalf.’

‘How considerate of you. I’m a friend. Went to school with Bellamy, so I’ve known O forever.’ The designer winked smugly. ‘Heard a lot about you.’

‘I’ll be more careful around Octavia in future.’

‘Don’t. She’s so complimentary it’s sickening. Apparently you’re some kind of big deal.’

‘Thank you?’

‘You’re welcome. Seriously, though, she thinks you’re awesome. If Bell is a bit slow to warm up to you that’s probably why.’ Clarke leaned closer conspiratorially. ‘He wants to suss you out. Make sure you won’t lead her astray.’

‘I’m not sure what “astray” means in the context of being a professional ballerina.’

‘Running away to take up tap dancing?’

‘I’ll be sure to keep my love of tap dancing to myself.’ _What the fuck, Woods. What. The. Fuck._ Lexa was saved from digging herself further into the tap-shoe-shaped hole by the appearance of Lincoln on the other side of the room. ‘Listen, I need to go catch someone. Also to apologize, incidentally. Do you mind?’

‘Go. I’ll catch you later.’ Clarke grinned and raised her glass, but Lexa heard a splutter from behind her as she turned away. ‘O, this is foul.’

‘Clarke, you know I literally pick wines based on whether it has a cute animal on the label. Try the red, it's Australian and it's called Little Penguin...’

‘Lex!’ Lincoln saw her approaching, raising his voice to be heard over the persistent speakers. ‘I’m really glad you’re here. Octavia was hoping you’d come, but I wasn’t sure, after today.’

‘Right. Today,’ sighed Lexa, leaning in closer, reluctant to yell. ‘I’m really sorry, Linc. I was a jerk. For the record, I think you’re very musical. Exceptionally. And you’re way too important to me to -’

She was cut off by one of Lincoln’s uniquely perfect hugs: not too tight, not too long, just completely sincere and utterly comforting. She let herself sink into it, feeling the guilty weight in the pit of her stomach dissolve, until he drew back and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘I’m gonna stop you there, before you say something sappy and ruin your reputation.’ He hesitated, his hands tightening for a moment. ‘And for what it’s worth, Lex, my last ten years wouldn’t have been nearly so great without you.’

‘ _Linc._ ’

‘It’s true. We do good work, you and me. I’ve got you, and so does Anya, and everyone else, and we’re not going anywhere.’

Lexa took a deep breath through a throat which had closed up to an alarming degree. ‘You’re not going to do my reputation any good if you make me cry.’

‘Suck it up, Woods.’ He opened one of the beers on the side and handed it to her with a celebratory clink from his own bottle. ‘To your dad. And to us.’

‘To us.’

 

***

 

‘You look happy,’ said Bellamy when they met later by the fridge, in one of the sincere, meaningful moments he sometimes had, and Octavia was sufficiently buzzed that she didn't even try to roll her eyes at him.

Maybe it was the buzz, or maybe it was just because it was true. Octavia had been at the company long enough for the first rush of sheer euphoria to wear off, but it had been replaced by a familiarity which was almost better. She felt like she belonged there at the theater, with the other dancers, and now - Lincoln on the couch where she'd left him, Lexa actually _slouching_ against the doorframe as she talked to Harper, the mildly terrifying choreographer swapping physical therapy anecdotes with Maya and her newly reconstructed knee - it felt like they belonged in her world too. She was happy, but not the intoxicating, too-bright kind of happiness that happened right before the spell was broken and the ballgown turned back into rags; it was a glowing, everyday happiness like a warm secret, from knowing who she was and what she was made for, from feeling purposeful and real and _right_.

She could feel Bellamy’s surprise when she hugged him instead, but then his arms tightened around her. ‘You know I just want you to be okay, right? Dancing can be such a bitch, and I was worried about you, but now...I mean, these seem like good people. If you’re happy, I’m happy.’

‘I am. So happy. It’s like this is what I’ve been waiting for, and now everything makes sense.’

A double Blake squeeze was too intense to be endured for long, and Bellamy had to extract himself. ‘Okay, take me to meet your friends properly. I need to make sure they’re appropriate companions for my little sister.’

‘ _Bellamy_.’

‘Just kidding.’

‘Like hell you are.’ Octavia stepped closer again and pointed a slightly wavering finger in his face. ‘Ground rules. No talking to them without my supervision, until I decide you can be trusted not to give them the third degree. I remember that open day at college, and this time I’d like to be able to show my face at work on Monday. No cornering them and taking them by surprise. And do _not_ ask them about salary and pension prospects within the company.’

‘Gotcha.’

‘I mean it, Bell. Don’t be an ass.’

‘I think the word you’re looking for is “big brother”, although they are synonyms.’ Bellamy held his hands up in surrender as Octavia’s glare grew even more menacing. ‘I got it. I’ll follow your lead. Now don’t you think we should go keep the big man company?’

Octavia did think so, and apparently so did Lincoln, judging by his smile when she flopped down next to him on the couch with two more beers in hand. ‘Hey, O.’

Octavia gave Bellamy a final warning glare before she smiled at Lincoln and handed him a drink. ‘Sorry that took so long, I ran into an unexpected obstacle.’

‘She means me,’ put in Bellamy, sitting down on her other side, ‘and I don’t appreciate the sass.’

‘I think the word you’re looking for is “little sister”, although they’re synonyms.’

Octavia was certain that Lincoln had heard much worse sniping in his years at the school, and he was grinning as he leaned forward and held out a hand to Bellamy. ‘Sure. Thanks for having us all here, man. I know we can be a bit much.’

‘Oh, really? Would you say there’s a work hard, play hard kind of culture?’

‘First warning,’ muttered Octavia, but Lincoln seemed unfazed. ‘Sure. And most of us have known each other forever, so it’s nice to hang out when we’re not at work.’

‘Must be kind of tough for someone to break into a group like that.’

 _‘Second warning_.’

‘If you mean Octavia, the opposite.’ He smiled at her. ‘It’s been great for all of us to get to know someone new. Being surrounded by childhood friends can get boring.’

‘Not the wisest thing to say when you literally are surrounded by childhood friends, Eastman,’ commented Anya, sitting down on the floor beside them with two glasses of something dark and deadly-looking. Lexa squeezed herself into the last remaining space on the couch beside Lincoln, tucking her bare feet under him comfortably, and took one of them. ‘Childhood friends are also the worst enemies. They can get revenge in all sorts of creative ways.’

‘Not wise at all,’ agreed Clarke, settling into the one remaining chair and smiling sweetly at the Blakes. ‘You never know what embarrassing stories and dark moments in your past they might feel the need to share.’

Bellamy grinned. ‘On the contrary, it’s an opportunity not to be missed.’

‘ _Third -’_

‘What? I didn’t even bring it up.’ He gestured at Lincoln with his beer bottle. ‘You start, we can go round the circle. Tell us an embarrassing story about Anna Pavlova over here.’

Lincoln smirked at Lexa, who waved him on with a dramatic sigh. ‘When we started partnering for the first time she spent at least a week falling over in front of me. All the time, just in the corridor between classes. Apparently Anya had told her it would “condition me into catching her”.’

‘It worked, didn’t it?’

‘Yes, but only after I’d already requested a partner change because I thought you were the clumsiest person in the world.’

Octavia pouted. ‘That’s not embarrassing, that’s adorable. Surely even you can’t be perfect all the time.’

‘When she was in the corps she tripped as she was coming on stage and fell flat on her face,’ chimed in Anya. ‘It was spectacular.’

‘Virtuosic.’

‘I hate you both.’

‘But if I’d been there,’ added Lincoln pointedly, ‘I would have caught you.’

‘Remember how Ontari just vaulted right over her and carried on?’

‘And Lex gave her _the look_? Exactly, that one.’

Lexa scowled, discovered her own drink was empty, and swapped it neatly with Lincoln’s. ‘Linc once punched Jasper in the face for dropping me in partnering class.’

‘That,’ Clarke decreed solemnly, ‘is not embarrassing. That is _heroic_.’

‘He broke his thumb.’

‘Defending _your_ honor.’

‘Defending her few brain cells.’

‘You know you would have done exactly the same thing. Anyway, Jasper broke his nose.’

‘Lincoln has now turned to kickboxing,’ Lexa informed them. ‘And Jasper hasn’t dropped anyone that recently.’

‘He is improving.’

‘Don’t mention it to him,’ said Anya sternly, although her eyes definitely said _do_. ‘He’s sensitive about it. He doesn’t want Maya to think he’s a klutz.’

‘In high school, Clarke spent an entire party making friends with this guy’s dog by following it around on all fours.’

‘You little shit, O, you weren’t even there.’

‘I saw the pictures.’

‘Octavia has a poster of Lexa here on her bedroom wall.’

Octavia tossed her hair. ‘That poster means a lot to me. It's part of my heartwarming personal journey. I'm not embarrassed.’

‘Lexa is,’ pointed out Lincoln, slinging an affectionate arm around the ballerina, who had gone bright red. ‘Come on, Lex. A poster is just a small billboard, and you’re used to those.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Bell tripped over as he went to collect his diploma at his high school graduation,’ announced Octavia with great satisfaction. ‘It was one of the greatest moments of my life. And it’s still one more stage than I’ve ever fallen on.’

‘Yet,’ said Lexa and Anya simultaneously, Lexa gloomily, Anya with something that sounded more like gloating, or hope. Octavia was too busy sneering at them to get the full effect of Bellamy’s comment, which, judging by the outcry, was something along the lines of why would a dancer ever fall on stage because really how hard could it be.

‘I will  _show_ you how hard. And you,’ said Anya firmly, pulling Bellamy and Clarke up by the hands and pushing them towards a comparatively empty spot near Octavia’s bedroom door. ‘You two are definitely outnumbered by dancers here. It’s about time you got some advanced tuition…’

That left just the three of them on the couch, and Lexa coughed significantly and untangled herself from Lincoln. ‘I think I’m going to go somewhere too. Somewhere else. You know, let you two catch up.’

‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘Maybe you’re boring me and I’m trying to be nice about making a run for it.’

‘Are you?’

Lexa shot Lincoln a wink which turned into more of a slow blink, then bent down to give him a quick hug, patted Octavia on the top of the head and wandered off. Octavia leaned round to see her heading for the window that led to the fire-escape. ‘Is she okay?’

‘She’ll be fine. She sobers up pretty quickly when she gets outside. It’s meant we’ve had to break onto our fair share of rooftops.’

'You two are pretty close.’

Lincoln nodded simply. 'We go back ten years, more or less. Started at the school at the same time, lived on the same corridor, got into the company together.’ He caught Octavia’s eye and waved his beer bottle emphatically. 'Oh, no, it's not like that. Lex is as gay as they come. Why? Do you want to date -’

‘You?’

‘- her?’

'Yes! Wait. No. I mean, I want to _be_ her. But I’m not as gay as they come. Not that it would be a bad thing if I was, obviously, but I’m not. I’m extremely straight. I think Lexa’s awesome, and I love girls, but, you know. There are many kinds of love. Fucking hell, Blake, get a grip.’ Octavia looked up at Lincoln suspiciously. 'Are you laughing at me?’

He was smiling even as he shook his head. ‘It’s just, you’re normally so direct. I didn’t have you down as a rambler.’

‘I’m not. Only when drunk. It’s like, I get a sniff of alcohol, and click, the gates open. Word vomit. You’re lucky it was mostly PG-13.’ Octavia slumped back against the end of the couch and squinted to cut through the blur, but he really was the hottest man in the world and she couldn’t help being naturally prone to honesty. ‘It doesn’t have to be PG-13, obviously.’

‘We’re both adults.’

‘Exactly...’ 

 

***

 

The cool air coming through the window was an absolute fucking blessing after the exertions of her unexpected dance class, and Clarke was about to fall out onto the fire escape in relief when she noticed Lexa already there. The dancer had taken her sneakers off somewhere inside, and Clarke gulped slightly as she saw long, bare legs, leather jacket halfway on her shoulders, cigarette in hand. This girl, shadowed except for the lights from the party inside, was so different from the sunlit, luminous creature in the ballet studio; not quite a stranger but suddenly very, very far from being known.

She turned and smiled when she saw Clarke, and began to shuffle over to make room. ‘I think we had the right idea. Best seats in the house.’

‘What they lack in comfort they make up for in charm.’ The designer crawled out with less dignity than she would have liked, settling close beside Lexa on the cramped steps. ‘And the company, of course. Are ballerinas supposed to smoke?’

‘If you tell Anya I'll have to kill you and everyone you love.’ Lexa offered her the cigarette and grinned when Clarke took it. ‘Except now I can blame your corrupting influence.’

‘No offense, but I'm amazed you've managed to keep it secret from her.’

‘It's pretty lame, as vices go. My consumption rate is about one per six months.’

‘Then why worry about her finding out?’

‘Anya can be very...intense about certain things. I happen to be one of them.’ Clarke didn't miss the way Lexa’s expression softened. ‘She’d think I was an idiot, and she’d be right, because smoking is a fucking stupid habit for an athlete. But she also thinks it’s important to break out and _not_ be an athlete every once in awhile, so we’d just be out here forever, impaled on the contradictions of her sheer wisdom.’

‘That sounds painful.’

‘Story of my fucking life.’ The ballerina apparently got significantly more foul-mouthed when she was a few drinks in, and Clarke liked it. ‘Ah, no, that’s unfair. I’d be nowhere without her. And she _is_ right about the smoking thing, so I only give in once in a blue moon.’

‘What’s the occasion?’

Lexa stubbed out the cigarette carefully and ran a hand through her hair, smooth curls appearing over her shoulder. ‘This morning it was ten years, exactly, since I started at the company ballet school.’

'That's amazing.’ Then, because Lexa did not look amazed, she added more cautiously, 'Ten years is a long time.’

'It is.’ Lexa took a long draught from her beer and grimaced delicately. ‘It’s so early to have your life planned out, you know? I didn't realize at the time, I was just so grateful to have somewhere to go, and so relieved I was going to be able to keep dancing, but I was thinking about it before I came out tonight. I mean, ten fucking years...If it was a marriage I'd be getting presents, or a fancy dinner, or at least sex. And instead I had a pretty terrible day. There was nothing dramatic about it. I just spent the whole time asking myself _why_. I didn't feel happy. This is my dream, this is what I've given up everything for, and it was supposed to make everything make sense.’

It struck a loud, devastating chord, and Clarke swallowed as best she could with a suddenly dry mouth. It took her by surprise, as it always did, whenever she saw something her dad would have liked or remembered something he’d said; it left her as brittle and breathless as in the moment before bursting into tears. She didn’t talk about it lightly, and she barely knew Lexa, really, but the dancer had liquid eyes and a steady, still center, and some instinct inside Clarke made her clear her throat and start talking almost before she realized what she was saying.

‘My dad played baseball in college. Best pitcher in the conference his senior season, tipped for the first round of the draft, opted out so he could go to grad school. Everyone said he was crazy, but he always told me it was the third-best decision of his life.’ She managed to smile at the memory. ‘The first was marrying my mom. The second was not fleeing the country the moment he saw my screaming face in the hospital.’

‘He sounds like a very smart man.’

‘The smartest.’ The designer looked down into her lap for a moment, the wine stain on her dress invisible in the dark. ‘He said that once he’d decided to do what he wanted, not what people expected, everything became clear. I mean, _no one_ turns down a major league career to be an engineer, but he was the biggest nerd in the world, so.’ Every time Clarke thought she’d be able to talk about him without her throat closing up, and every time, every _damn_ time, she was wrong. Lexa just waited, patiently, sympathetically, and Clarke wondered if she’d noticed the past tenses. ‘And then he died. My senior year of high school. I had everything planned out, I was going to go to UCLA and Stanford and I was going to be a surgeon like my mom, but I couldn’t forget what he said about doing what I wanted instead of what people wanted for me. I turned down all my acceptances and went to Europe to study art. And it was _hard_. Really hard. I was so fucking mad at him.’ She remembered breaking point - his birthday, sitting by herself in an empty studio long after dark, a nine hour flight away from anyone who would have made sure she was eating properly, or sleeping, or consuming liquids other than good coffee and bad vodka - and the memory of loneliness made her glance at the girl next to her for almost desperate reassurance. ‘All part of the grieving process, I know, but he hadn’t said it would be that way. It was all meant to become clear and simple, like he told me, and I was so pissed.’

Lexa nodded slowly, eyes very bright. ‘And was it worth it?’

The sincerity on her face combined with the alcohol to make Clarke well up for real, and she had to swallow hard again before she answered. ‘Yeah. He was right after all. It wasn’t always easy, in fact there were some really, _really_ shitty days, but I never thought about doing anything else. I always knew I was where I was meant to be. However bad it got.’

Lexa gazed at her speculatively for a moment, head tilted, then reached out almost diffidently and clinked Clarke’s beer bottle with her own. ‘Thank you for telling me, Clarke. That helps.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Some conversations were complete as they were, and Clarke was disproportionately glad that the ballerina seemed to have a good instinct for silence. They sat, and drank, and Clarke waited for the brittle feeling to recede, and Lexa stared out into the jumble of apartment blocks and back lots with face blank. She was _beautiful_ , Clarke realized all over again, and this time not because of the way she danced or the way she made clothes hang. It was those eyes, and that hair, and the varying degrees of smirk in her smile. It was too much, and not enough.

Minutes passed before Lexa sighed and stretched out her legs. ‘We should get back in there. I promised Echo I’d referee some kind of lethal drinking game.’

‘Referee?’

‘So she said.’ The ballerina stood in one fluid motion, swaying only slightly, and hesitated before she turned to go inside. ‘Clarke, thank you for this. For trusting me with it. It means a lot.’

‘Sure.’ Clarke cleared her throat and attempted a grin as Lexa headed back through the window. ‘You know, my first six weeks in Milan I rented a room from this woman who I’m 99% sure was also running a brothel...’

 

***

 

Clarke woke up slowly a few hours later, curled up on the end of the couch, where she vaguely remembered watching Octavia and one of the other company dancers debate something technical with gradually deteriorating levels of grace. It was light, burning through her eyelids even when she clamped them closed, and blissfully peaceful after the thump of the music which the designer could almost swear was still ringing in her ears. Three or four unfamiliar partygoers were still snoring quietly at various points around the room, but none of them stirred as Clarke heaved herself upright and forced her stiff muscles to make their way over to the kitchen sink.

She had almost gotten through two full glasses of water before there was a shuffling sound in the far corner of the room and Anya’s head popped through the fire escape window. ‘Well well well. The survivors.’

‘In a manner of speaking.’ Clarke finished the second glass and wondered how her mouth could possibly still be dry. ‘Don’t tell me you slept out there.’

‘Not for long. Lex found her way out again while I wasn’t looking and fell asleep like a toddler, so I stayed to make sure she didn’t roll off to her death.’ The choreographer grabbed a jacket from the back of a chair as she crossed the room, scrolling through her phone, and paused beside Clarke to fix her hair in the mirrored microwave door. ‘As much as I’d love to chat, Griffin, I have somewhere to be. Sleeping Beauty will probably be good to go, but you have my number if she looks like she needs help getting home. Make sure you call me if she does.’

‘I will.’ Clarke felt suddenly very sober as she met Anya’s eyes. ‘She’s lucky to have you.’

Anya shrugged brusquely and busied herself with pulling on her jacket. ‘Yeah, well. She deserves to have someone.’

It was fifteen minutes before the window clattered again, and Clarke, who had been sorely tempted to abandon her post in search of coffee and breakfast, was saved by the sight of Lexa climbing through, upright and, at least at first glance, relatively sober. ‘What time is it?’

‘Eight forty five.’

‘Fuck.’ The ballerina belatedly noticed the various sleeping figures around the room, and repeated herself in a whisper. ‘ _Fuck_. Everything hurts. My chiropractor is going to have words with me about sleeping on metal.’

‘You’re a walking cautionary tale.’ Clarke winced as she moved into a particularly objectionable beam of sunlight. ‘Now you’re awake, do you mind if I get out of here? I need to sit down with a coffee and something fried and rethink my life, and all the Blakes have is tuna.’

Lexa snagged a hand through her hair and squinted at her watch. ‘Well, I have a Pilates class in...too long to spend sitting in the shower trying not to puke, and not long enough to regret all the choices that brought me to this moment. But I do have coffee, and some food that's not in cans, so…’

‘Are you offering to feed me? At your place?’

‘I think it would be rude not to.’

‘You really don't have to do that.’

‘True. I just thought…’ She trailed off and shrugged a shoulder. ‘Being friends should probably extend to sharing coffee. In times of need. And I really appreciate what you said last night, so. It’s the least I can do.’

‘I was glad I could help. You don’t have to make me breakfast to thank me.’ Clarke saw a flicker of uncertainty flash across Lexa’s expression, and she backtracked hastily. ‘Not that that means I’m going to turn down the offer of food. It’s just...you’re welcome. Any time.’

‘As are you,’ offered Lexa, eyes almost disconcertingly honest. Clarke was only just beginning to learn how the dancer fitted together, still mystified by how her charm and competence could transform in a heartbeat into such straightforward sincerity. ‘I think that goes with the territory too. Along with the coffee.’

‘Then I gladly accept.’

‘Good.’ Lexa patted her pocket to check for keys and held out an arm. _After you_. ‘I’m reliably informed it’s what friends are for.’

_Friends._

Clarke realized, as they started down the stairs, that she wasn’t as happy with that as she should have been.

 


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, man. Long time no see. This chapter has been a while in coming but it's a nice long one. Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who's stuck around to read it!!

9am on a warm, September Saturday morning was the best time to be in the city. It was too early for the real heat, too early for the crowds, too early for the bakery on the corner of Octavia’s street to have sold out, or the fresh flowers to be gone from the huge metal buckets that appeared outside the neighboring convenience store at weekends. It was a time to pause, to take stock, to enjoy being alive.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ groaned Clarke as they stepped out onto the sidewalk, shielding her eyes and fumbling in her bag for her sunglasses. ‘Why is it so bright? It’s like God is personally trying to police my drinking.’

Lexa looked more sober than Clarke felt, but Clarke noticed how carefully she put on her own sunglasses before they headed off into the sunshine. ‘The last time I drank, I did the splits on the bar, hit Anya in the face and fell over my own head trying to do a penché, so I’d say we’re doing pretty well.’

‘What’s a penché?’

‘It’s a fancy balance that should only ever, _ever_ be attempted sober.’

‘Don’t drink and dance?’

‘You read my mind.’

Clarke would happily have called an Uber or collapsed on the nearest subway, but the ballerina insisted they walk, with a martyred determination that Clarke found half infuriating and half endearing. ‘If I don’t use my legs they'll seize up.’

‘I really don’t think that’s a thing.’

‘It is. I just slept on a _fire escape_ , Clarke. It is not what the physiotherapists recommend.’

‘How far is it?’

‘Ten minutes.’

‘Fine,’ sighed Clarke, feeling delicate. ‘But I demand an extra shot of espresso for every minute over.’

It wasn’t ten minutes, or even fifteen, but Clarke barely pouted and couldn’t find it in herself to grumble, because even hungover she could see that Lexa was losing her worn-out look from the night before. The sunglasses might have been deceptive, not to mention the residual haze of the alcohol, but it looked suspiciously as though the ballerina was physically glowing. She jaywalked recklessly, smiled at nothing in particular, and when she thought Clarke wasn’t looking she hopped off sidewalks with a little flourish that was almost a skip. It also didn’t hurt, if Clarke was totally honest, that her cutoffs were very short and her legs were unsurprisingly goddess-like.

It wasn’t until the third sidewalk that she caught Clarke watching. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No, come on. You smiled. Don’t tell me Anya drew on my face again.’

‘Now I’m curious.’

‘Let’s just say she has a surprisingly simple sense of humor for someone so creative.’

‘Really, it’s nothing.’ _I mean, Octavia has amazing legs too. Occupational hazard. Doesn’t_ mean _anything._ ‘It’s just...you seem happier. Way perkier than you have any right to be, based on what Anya was giving you to drink.’

Lexa shrugged one shoulder and gestured expressively around the very ordinary intersection they were waiting to cross. ‘I like mornings. Yesterday was shitty, at least most of it, and today is the kind of morning that makes you _want_ to dance.’ She looked sidelong at Clarke, half-defensive. ‘That’s important, when you dance for a living. Sometimes you have to remind yourself that you started off dancing because it made you happy, and that it still does, even when you want to lie down in the middle of the studio and wait for death.’ She sighed and traced a pattern mechanically on the sidewalk with the toe of her sneaker. ‘And now I sound like that guy from _Footloose_. Or like I should be knitting my own halloumi at Woodstock. Dance is the answer, or whatever.’

Clarke knew exactly what she meant, but she responded with a joke almost out of habit. ‘Believe me, if there were any movies about the power of fashion design, I’d sound the same.’

‘Clearly you’ve never seen _Cinderella_.’ The ballerina grinned at her tentatively. ‘Dancing is… important to me. It's more than just a job. It's what I’m meant to do.’

‘Has it always been that way?’

‘Always.’

There was a silence, or as much as there could be in the middle of a city that was now painfully awake. Clarke loved her job, and was altogether pretty damn happy with her life, but she found herself oddly envious of the ballerina’s sheer certainty; of the idea of having a clear path laid out in front of her instead of having to wrestle between head and heart, between the dreams of a dead parent and the disappointment of a live one. ‘It must have been nice to always know where you were going.’

‘Sure.’ Lexa’s tone wasn’t unfriendly, but it was curt enough to be obvious she wasn’t going to say any more. She was expressionless when Clarke looked at her, her perfect profile sharp against the blur of traffic, as though carved in stone or captured on paper. Clarke had been telling herself that the attraction the ballerina held for her was down to her inner artist, the part of her that appreciated clean lines and smooth shapes and beauty in all its forms. But she knew, from one look at Lexa’s flawless posture and lovely, unreadable face, that it wasn’t really about the dancing. Beauty, yes, but in a very - _very, very_ \- different way.

Clarke was _never_ shy - partly by nature, partly because repeated exposure to Octavia made you immune to embarrassment - but the realization brought her close, and it only got worse as the ballerina led her up the stairs to the top floor apartment of a graceful five-storey house. There was something about the casual intimacy of visiting Lexa’s home that made her suddenly very aware of who they were and what they were doing. She knew now that they’d passed a point of no return out there on the fire-escape, when they had stopped being colleagues and become just two girls telling each other secrets in the dark, but it had seemed almost unreal at the time. In daylight, away from the buzz of the alcohol and the noise of the party and the sheen of the moonlight on Lexa’s skin, there was no way to pretend that tomorrow it would be just another job, and just another model. In daylight, Clarke couldn’t ignore the hard truth that this was different and ambiguous and _more_.

‘Come on in,’ Lexa called, with a clink of keys and a thud of discarded sneakers that cut across the designer’s eleventh-hour soul-searching. ‘The coffee is this way.’

Clarke took a deep breath and crossed the threshold.

Lexa’s apartment was tiny, cosy, simultaneously cramped and not. The floor of the biggest room was completely clear, all rugs and bare boards and absolutely no clutter, but there were precarious heaps of books on the broad windowsills and under the coffee table, soft blankets and fat, patchwork cushions all over the armchairs, a vase of irises and magnolias perched on the bulb-less bracket of a fancy thrift-store lampstand. And that was before Clarke noticed the shelf completely full of pointe shoes, stacked meticulously on top of each other in a neat, sloping pile three shoes high. ‘Wow.’

‘I know, I know, it’s a mess. I’m sure you’re terribly minimalist.’ Lexa hugged her sides and glanced pensively around the room. ‘It doesn’t really bother me. It was more important that it be mine, than that it be big or fancy.’

‘No, it’s...perfect.’ It was true - the apartment and its occupant made a weird kind of sense - and the hangover made her honest. ‘I meant, the shoes. That has to be, what, a year’s supply?’

‘Not even close. They’ll see me through to the end of Nutcracker rehearsals, if I’m lucky.’

‘May I?’ Lexa nodded, and Clarke stepped closer to pick one up. The pink satin was smooth and flawless, and someone had inked ‘WOODS’ across the sole in tiny blue biro letters. ‘How many do you get through a week?’

‘Too many. They’re pretty much a one-use product. Wear them onstage, that’s it.’

Clarke replaced the shoe carefully. ‘I feel bound to inform you that as a clothing professional, I find that deeply offensive.’

‘I seem to remember that you did an entire show where the models literally stripped off at the end and threw their clothes in a diamond-encrusted trashcan.’

‘You know about that?’

‘I read it somewhere.’ Lexa shrugged noncommittally, turning away and rearranging some of the piles of clutter into different piles. ‘You know. In passing.’

Clarke grinned as she saw that the tips of the ballerina’s ears had turned a delicate red. ‘Sure, but the whole collection was recyclable. The point was to highlight sustainable fashion. Apples and oranges.’

Lexa’s eyes glinted. ‘Remind me to show you the state of my shoes after the fall gala. You’ll run a mile. Hey there, miss me? Thought not. You could at least try to look a _little_ worried about where I’ve been all night.’

She hadn’t mentioned a roommate, and Clarke looked around startled, but no one was there except a gray cat padding in serenely from an adjoining room. Lexa nodded at him. ‘Told you he ignores me. His name’s Astro, although I really don’t know why I bother.’

Clarke scooped the cat up instinctively and scratched between his ears. ‘Are you a thwarted space nerd?’

‘No. I like puns.’ The ballerina looked at her expectantly, and finally sighed. ‘It’s short for Astrophe.’ No response. ‘And he’s a cat.’ Silence. ‘Oh, for the love of...he’s a cat called Astrophe. Cat Astrophe. This really doesn’t bode well for our future friendship.’

‘I’ll do better,’ Clarke promised meekly, hiding her smile in the cat's fur.

‘No, more because that's probably the funniest thing I’ll ever come up with.’ Lexa dragged a hand through her lovely hair and made a face at the tangles. ‘I have nothing else to offer. Except breakfast, I suppose. I did promise.’

‘Look, you really don’t have to -’

‘I meant it. Believe me, I don’t offer to make breakfast for just anyone.’ It sounded like a joke, just a throwaway, but her eyes were soft. ‘And no, not because I can’t cook. Kitchen’s through here.’

Clarke wandered into the tiny kitchen, observing the stack of books on the single countertop – scruffy black Penguin Classics with fancy titles, not a cookbook in sight – and the corkboard propped up against the wall. A ticket from a long-past performance by the company, a cluster of photos dominated by a much-folded picture of a huge man with a beard, a battered greetings card with the encouraging message that _You Can’t Buy Happiness But You Can Buy Wine And That’s Kind Of The Same Thing._

‘Make yourself at home.’ Lexa was bustling expertly around the confined space, opening cupboards and setting coffee to brew. Clarke caught the scent of espresso powder and inhaled it like a sniffer dog. 

‘Cream? Sugar?’

‘Both. Lots.’

‘Would ma’am like any coffee with that?’ Lexa smiled innocently as Clarke rolled her eyes, and handed the designer a white mug bearing the slogan _Good Morning, I See The Assassins Have Failed._

‘Nice mug.’

Lexa grinned and hopped down from her coffee-brewing perch on the counter-top. ‘Housewarming present from one of the girls I was at school with. Apparently I had a reputation for being sarcastic when we had early class. Hey, can you bear to wait five minutes while I change for Pilates?’

‘I don’t want to hold you up if you’re late.’

‘Clarke, the second you’re inconveniencing me I promise you’ll know about it. I was raised by Anya, remember?’ Even on limited acquaintance with the choreographer, Clarke could imagine, but she didn't miss the way the ballerina's gaze flickered almost imperceptibly over to the photo of the man with the beard. ‘It’s not lack of time, more that I have to do something to get my hair out of my face or I’ll go mad. Make yourself at home. There’s plenty more coffee if you want a refill.’

‘That’s the way to my heart.’

The kitchen seemed quiet once Lexa had stepped next door. The cat leaped up onto the sunny windowsill and sat there watching Clarke steadily, big soft tail beating against the glass. Clarke drained her coffee with a moan of relief, feeling it burn the hangover away from the inside, and poured herself another. She bent to take a closer look at the creased spines of the books, Miller and de Tocqueville and Euripides all in perfect alphabetical order, before her eyes drifted to the corkboard. The show ticket was from almost exactly ten years earlier, and Clarke remembered enough from that article in _City Living_ to guess that it had been the first time Lexa saw the company perform. She smiled at an adorable photo of Lexa aged six or seven in an enormous pink tulle skirt, a couple of Lexa and Lincoln in costume holding bouquets the size of a small child, and one of Lexa glowering beside a smug-looking Anya. She didn’t recognize the people in the last two pictures, one a black and white shot of a ballerina on stage, and the other of the bearded man, who Clarke was somehow sure was Lexa’s father. She was leaning in to look for a family resemblance when the cat chose to have one of his energetic moments, brushing the board with his tail as he leaped to the floor and dislodging a newspaper cutting from behind the photos.

It was a large cutting folded in half, but it had fallen open. One half was a colour picture of Lexa on stage, all in white, arms extended behind her like wings, head tipped back with an expression that, even in profile, Clarke could only describe as broken. The text was a review of _Swan Lake_ dated a year previously. The designer’s eyes skimmed the first paragraph - _Marcus Kane and Indra Shourona, former artists themselves but the most pragmatic of artistic directors, have shown almost unbelievable faith in Woods_ \- but two passages further down had been carefully underlined in pencil. _By the third act, playing the swan princess betrayed by her lover, Woods gives as haunting a portrayal of heartbreak as I have ever seen. Despair drips from her fingertips, she dances as though drowning in grief._ Clarke ignored the next few lines about the perfection of Lexa’s arabesque and skipped to the next underlined sentence. _To whom much is given, much will be required. But this performance was exactly what Woods’s outrageous talent required of her, and more._

‘You saw that, huh?’

Clarke straightened up like she had been burned and swung round to face Lexa, now dressed in yoga pants and a slate-gray tank top that made her eyes confusingly green, calmly twisting her hair into a braid. ‘Yeah. I mean, I didn’t...I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking through your stuff. It fell out from behind the photos.’

‘No, it’s okay. It’s not hidden, I just don't always want to see it.’ Lexa came to stand beside her and smoothed the paper out flat on the countertop. ‘This was from fall season last year, not long before I got injured. It was...a difficult time for me. Personally, not professionally, but...it bled through. It was the best I’ve ever danced, and the audience and the critics loved it, and it was the first and currently last time that Indra’s ever hugged me.’ She sighed and tucked the cutting back behind the photos. ‘Talent like mine, like yours…it’s an accident of birth. And everything I do is to be worthy of it.’

‘To deserve it.’

‘Yeah.’ Lexa’s eyes were very soft. ‘To be _enough_.’

They were both quiet while Lexa pulled out pans and plates, cracked eggs, refilled Clarke’s mug with a grin when the designer offered to help. It was summer-warm, the sunlight streaming in through the window and illuminating a shelf of bright yellow crockery, and Clarke felt at peace for the first time in what felt like weeks. She loved her apartment, but it wasn’t what you’d call relaxing, not with the constant reminders of her latest project taped and tacked and painted on the walls. And she couldn’t remember the last time somebody had actually made her breakfast, or indeed the last time she’d had a proper breakfast at all beyond the yogurt she usually grabbed on the way to the studio, or her weekend extravagance of toast. Not since her dad...

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Sure.’

‘Is this your father?’

Lexa’s hand faltered for a split-second as she chopped scallions. ‘Yes.’

Clarke nodded and unconsciously tightened her grip on her coffee, unsure of the correct follow-up. She’d said it without thinking, remembering Jake Griffin’s famous patent pancakes, but she was so used to being on the receiving end of the usual platitudes that she had no idea what to do next.

Instead it was Lexa who eventually spoke again, voice very level. ‘I’m guessing that your silence means you know that he's dead.’

Clarke put down her mug and braved looking the dancer in the face. ‘I read it in the _City Living_ article. I’m sorry, I should have...I should have said so last night. When I mentioned mine.’

‘No, I should have told you. Full disclosure and all that. Sharing.’ The ballerina dished up omelettes and buttered spinach and handed a plateful to Clarke. ‘Quit the marines when my mom died, retrained to teach high school physics, got hit by a car on the way home from taking football practice.’ Her voice trailed off, and her jaw clenched as she handed out cutlery. ‘Sorry. I promise I’m really very well-adjusted. Sometimes it just seems so...unbelievable. He spent ten years riding around in tanks and he died in a Honda Civic.’

‘Believe me, you don’t have to explain.’

Lexa gestured her into a chair in the other room and sat down opposite with her plate, the cat settling comfortably beside her. ‘I think he would have liked your dad. He didn't know the first thing about ballet, but he always said that if I loved it that much I should go for it. Didn't like the idea of me going away to ballet school, but he would have let me come anyway.’

 _Would have._ It made Clarke sad to realize how familiar those words were, how used she was to talking about what could have been instead of how things actually were. _Dad would have been proud. Dad would have enjoyed this. Dad would have had my back._

Eating in cosy silence in the sunlit room, Clarke felt both safe and profoundly unbalanced. She was surprised how comfortable she was in the easy domesticity, how right it felt to be spending her Saturday morning sitting in Lexa’s home having breakfast, but there was something slightly off-kilter. She somehow knew the ballerina both too well and not enough to feel like an ordinary visitor - they’d barely _chatted_ , except about art and inspiration, dreams and dead fathers. It felt like she’d skipped a step somewhere, made a leap she had no right to. But there was something reassuring about Lexa; a fierce, still center, a quiet composure from years of being judged and never found wanting. She made no promises and did nothing flashy, but she set Clarke at ease all the same.

Eventually the ballerina looked at her watch and sighed. ‘I need to head off. You’re welcome to stay, you know where the coffee is -’

‘No, I should get back to O’s. I said I’d help clear up. Thank you, though. This was…lovely.’ Clarke stood, plate balanced in her left hand as she reached uncompromisingly for Lexa’s. ‘You’d be horrified at my diet. You’ve probably added five years to my life just by making me eat spinach.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Lexa leaned almost diffidently against the doorframe as Clarke insisted on washing up. ‘I don’t really do visitors. Anya and Lincoln, sometimes, but we go somewhere bigger if there’s lots of us. I’ve missed...it was nice to have someone new here.’

Clarke relented and let Lexa dry after Astro started licking a plate on the draining board, and it was a rush to leave the apartment in time once they’d started talking again. The ballerina swung round just as they were about to leave and hastily scribbled a phone number on a scrap of paper. ‘For Octavia, since you're going to see her. My gyrotonics instructor. She says she’s all booked up, but I had a word.’

Clarke took it silently, but she touched Lexa’s arm as they were about to part company on the hot street below. ‘While I’m here...Thank you for what you’ve done for Octavia. This was always her dream, but I know it’s not easy.’

Lexa looked at her meditatively for a moment. ‘It’s a tough world, especially when you haven’t been brought up in it. I had Anya. Octavia has me.’ She hesitated, balanced on the balls of her feet as though she was going to step forward, then smiled and turned to go. ‘Thank you, Clarke. I had fun.’

 

***

 

Lexa could count her hangovers on one hand. The morning after she was given her corps contract, when she and Anya had staggered to the airport for the Paris tour bleary-eyed from sharing three bottles of champagne. Her nineteenth birthday, when Indra had come on stage during bows and announced her promotion to principal, and the whole company had celebrated hard enough that Jasper only escaped being arrested thanks to someone’s fast talk about interpretive dance and artistic nudity. Lincoln’s twenty-first. And the night of her injury, which had involved an entire bottle of Scotch and been by far the worst of the lot. This time, a bucket of coffee, an omelette the size of a place-mat and a half-liter bottle of water on the walk over had definitely helped, but she still felt fragile as she turned into the fitness center.

It was the flash of gold in the lobby that really did it. Lexa saw blonde hair out of the corner of her eye and her head whipped round eagerly of its own accord, only to see that it belonged to a stranger vanishing into the hot yoga studio. That one glimpse, and the realization that it _mattered_ to her, was enough to leave her standing stock-still in a sea of lycra and whale music while the world blurred past her. She knew, logically, that it couldn’t have been Clarke, that Clarke had walked off in the opposite direction, that Clarke had gone back to Octavia’s instead of being crazy enough to spend her Saturday morning toning muscles she couldn’t spell. But it was enough that she’d noticed, let alone that she’d hoped. Lexa spent enough time in her own head to know what it meant.

‘Fucking hell,’ she muttered, half-awestruck, half-appalled by the sudden hit of mingled hope and dismay; the hope of _maybe this time_ and the constant, gnawing apprehension of _maybe not_.

Pilates was not good. Lexa usually enjoyed the simplicity of the repetitions, where she could be even more mindless than in company class since no one was watching her and no one cared if her leg wasn’t fully extended, but it was impossible to zone out with her brain see-sawing frantically between thinking about Clarke and _not_ thinking about Costia. Worse, the party, the friends, the alcohol, the sunshine in the morning, _Clarke Clarke Clarke_ , had allowed Lexa to forget the simple truth that her entire body was one large throb of pain. After growling out loud at the prospect of doing forty single-leg bridges she gave it up as a bad job, rolled up her mat and snuck out.

Anya’s building was only two blocks from the studio, and Lexa found herself in front of it almost on auto-pilot. Consulting Anya had always been her automatic reaction to anything that was bothering her, ever since the older girl had found her in tears that first week at the school, so it was no surprise. A voice in the back of her mind, not unlike Indra’s, suggested that at twenty-two she should be responsible for her own love life, or lack thereof. A second voice, more like Lincoln’s, said that that was the whole point of friends when you were too old for sleepovers but too young for childcare. She called the elevator and then, imagining Indra’s disapproving face - ‘damn blow blast and bloody hell, _fuck_ ’ - took the stairs.

It was a sign of her preoccupation that she stood blinking for a full five seconds when the door opened to reveal her physiotherapist.

In fairness, Raven looked equally taken aback, even though on the face of it there was way more reason for Lexa to turn up at Anya’s apartment than for Raven to be there already. Lexa put two and two together and made five. ‘Did something happen to Anya? Is she okay?’

‘Hey, hey, chill. They had an emergency in the tech rehearsal for that preview that’s opening next week. I was actually…’ Raven cleared her throat. ‘I mean, I was actually expecting her back right about now. I don’t generally go around answering other people’s doors.’

‘Right.’ Lexa blinked again and raised an eyebrow. ‘And you’re answering this door because…?’

‘Oh, boy. Okay.’ The physiotherapist sighed and waved a hand. ‘I think you’d better come inside.’

 

***

 

‘I’m not saying I’m _dating_ Anya,’ said Raven, after Lexa had helped herself to another large coffee, two Alka Seltzers and an out-of-date Advil she found in the cutlery drawer. ‘We’re just...you know we met in physical therapy, right? She was having the same kind of problems I ran into when I first lost my leg. I wanted to help, we got friendly, and it just kind of happened. Only recently, though. Neither of us are exactly fast movers.’

Lexa wondered if it was a leg injury joke, decided not, and said nothing.

There was a semi-awkward pause, and the physio’s voice had an edge to it when she spoke again. ‘She’s not my patient, if that’s what you’re worried about. She never has been. I came to the group as a supporter, not professionally.’

‘I’m not worried.’

‘And don’t read anything into the fact that Anya hasn’t said anything. Neither of us wanted to make a big deal of it. We’re not really sure what _it_ is, so -’

‘Raven.’

‘- and don’t read anything into me flirting with you at your appointment the other day. I flirt with everyone. I’m irresistible, so it became a habit. Anya thinks it’s funny. At least, I’m pretty sure she does. I haven’t actually -’

‘Raven. I’m not mad.’

Raven stopped mid-sentence and grinned with relief. ‘Thank fuck. Like I say, I am irresistible, so I wasn’t really worried.’ The smile disappeared. ‘But Anya thinks the world of you, so it would have seriously bummed me out if you’d had a problem with me. I’m not messing her around, I promise. It is whatever it is, but we’re on the same page.’

‘Anya can look after herself.’ _Anya looks after_ me _,_ Lexa added mentally, but out loud she just groaned and slumped against the kitchen island. Raven looked at her critically. ‘You sound like you need a drink.’

‘I cannot stress enough how much I do not.’

The physio glanced disapprovingly at Lexa’s feet, which were still in a perfect first position.‘You shouldn’t stand turned out like that, you know. Bad for your hips.’

‘It’s comfortable,’ said Lexa flatly, in a tone of voice that suggested _it’s non-negotiable_. ‘What I really need is to sit down. And preferably to never move again.’

‘As a physiotherapist, I object.’

‘As a patient, I respectfully ignore your objection.’ Anya had the usual dancer’s obsession with comfortable furniture, and the ballerina collapsed into an armchair fully intending to stay there forever. Raven moved to take off her prosthetic as she perched on the couch opposite. ‘Do you mind?’

‘No.’ Lexa tucked her legs up under her automatically, winced as her muscles complained and decided that life was too short to make small talk. ‘Have you ever dated someone who wouldn’t make time for you?’

‘ _Oh_ yes.’ Raven sank back reminiscently, with an expression of great satisfaction. ‘His name was Wick. Wick the Dick, if you will. We dated most of junior year and then he got put on the other team for the Schools Robotics Championships and ignored me for the whole of the senior fall semester.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Well, first my robot beat his robot. Literally beat. I equipped it with the janitor’s fire ax for the purpose.’ She shrugged modestly. ‘Not strictly within the competition criteria, but it was an expertly engineered ax-deployment mechanism. Still proud. Then I dumped his ass because I am a goddess who shouldn't have to put up with people who say they care but just show up when it’s convenient for them.’

‘That’s what I was afraid you’d say. Minus the alarming specifics.’

Raven took in the ballerina’s dejected expression and narrowed her eyes. ‘I have to admit, I was expecting you to feel a little more empowered.’

Lexa shook her head glumly. ‘Not me. I am the problem. In this scenario, I am Wick the Dick.’

‘Ah.’ Raven grimaced. ‘Whoops. My bad. I would have been more comforting if I’d known. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all bad between us. He had a lovely smile. And the sex was -’

‘I don’t know you well enough to need that sort of information.’

‘Just painting a picture.’

‘I appreciate it. And you’re right. I know you are. It’s just…’ Lexa snagged a hand frustratedly through her hair. ‘It’s not like that.’

‘What _is_ it like?’

‘It’s more…’ Lexa hesitated for a moment then unfolded her legs and sat forward, hands balanced palms up on her knees. ‘Say I like someone.’

‘Do I get to know who?’

Lexa was about to refuse and then remembered that she was fucked either way. ‘Her name’s Clarke. She’s a fashion designer.’

‘I know.’

‘How?’

‘Anya and I do actually talk sometimes.’ Raven shrugged. ‘Anya seems to rate her. Grudgingly. Which is impressive given how suspicious she usually is of anyone outside your little cult. Did I say cult? I meant company.’

Lexa sneered at her half-heartedly. ‘She tolerates you, apparently.’

‘I have other skills.’

‘I don’t want to know.’

‘No, you definitely don’t.’ The physio winked irritatingly. ‘So you like Clarke. And you think you don’t make time for her?’

‘Not _don’t_ , present tense. This is all subjunctive.’ Now that she’d said it out loud Lexa suddenly felt heavy, weighed down into the chair. ‘Is there any point in me liking _anyone_ when I have a job that means I’m never around to see them? If I can’t date anyone because they’ll just think I’m selfish and putting myself first?’

‘But you said it wasn’t like that.’

‘It isn’t. Or at least it doesn’t feel that way. Because I’m not _choosing_ to put myself first.’ She’d had this conversation before, and the memory made her breath tighten. ‘My ex once suggested I quit. I’d been moaning about how much everything hurt and how useless my partner was being and how stressed I was, and she just said I could quit if it was making me miserable. But I can’t. Not because I couldn’t do anything else, and not out of...duty, or because I feel I owe it to the company, or anything like that. I just can’t.’ Raven was silent. Lexa shrugged miserably and looked up to meet her eyes. ‘Remember how you said I needed to be able to dance? It’s like that. It doesn’t feel selfish, because it isn’t a choice. It’s not a decision I ever took. It just _is_.’ She swallowed and looked down at her hands. ‘I can’t choose Clarke. I can’t choose anyone. I want to. But I can’t.’

‘So you’re stuck.’

‘Exactly. Can’t not dance, can’t...not love.’ Lexa twisted her fingers. ‘It's not something I can change about myself, so I just feel...doomed. Like no-one will be able to put up with me until I'm forty-five and I can't dance any more. I always thought I could have both, but maybe I can't.’

Raven stared at her thoughtfully and shrugged. ‘I don't know, Lexa. I think you may have had a point.’

‘You do?’

‘Listen, I barely know you, but I do know genius when I see it. Mainly because I am one.’ Raven leaned forward and looked into Lexa’s eyes with an intensity that took the ballerina by surprise. ‘Dancing is part of you. You’re more than just a dancer, and I bet you’re way easier to get on with when one of your less angsty personas is taking charge. But you can never get rid of it, and if someone really loves you they won’t need you to. You being the future of dance or the savior of art or whatever has made you who you are, and someone who really loves you will fall for that part of you as much as the rest.’ She bit her lip almost imperceptibly. ‘You have to be brave to be in love. But if they can’t hurt you...’

Lexa didn’t need her to finish the thought. _If they can’t hurt you, it isn’t love at all._

 

***

 

Monday dawned with Clarke fighting the urge to punch someone. The weather had finally turned on Sunday, and although Clarke enjoyed the autumn/winter aesthetic she was significantly less enthusiastic about it in practice. She had also woken up with a headache, forgotten her yogurt and completed her entire commute without realizing that her shirt was inside out. The weather when she emerged from the subway was damp without actually raining and an irritatingly indecisive temperature somewhere between brisk and chilly. If Clarke had been the sort of person who threw things to relieve negative emotions, her iPhone would have met its doom.

She came close a few hours later when it rang as she was putting a final pin into a cocktail dress toile, but managed to confine herself to swiping aggressively and snarling at it. _‘What?_ ’

‘Holy shit, Griffin, chill out. Did you just see someone wearing double denim?’

‘Anya.’ Clarke made a conscious effort to be nice and sat down limply on the edge of the cutting table. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘How’s it going? Ready for the fitting this afternoon?’

‘Just about.’

‘Good, because I want to take you for coffee.’

Anya didn’t seem the type to make purely social calls. ‘I might be busy.’

‘You just said you were finished.’

‘I do actually have other work.’

‘Then we’ll get the coffee to go. The coffee isn’t actually vital, I just wanted to talk to you before the fitting. Asking if you were ready was just one of my little pleasantries.’

Trying and failing to imagine Anya being pleasant, Clarke hopped off the table and peered suspiciously out of the window. A lithe figure with a cigarette, a phone and and a forbidding expression was lounging against the street lamp opposite the door.

Clarke hung up. The lithe figure glanced at her phone, put it in her pocket and carried on smoking completely unconcerned. The designer growled abuse and went to get her coat.

‘You smoke?’

Anya pushed herself gracefully off the street lamp when she saw Clarke appear. ‘Only when stressed. Don’t tell Lexa. She does whatever I do, it wouldn't be safe.’

Clarke nodded, beating down her urge to snort. ‘What’s so important it couldn’t wait for the fitting? You approved the designs and the samples.’

‘It isn’t about the designs. It’s about Lexa.’ The best coffee shop in the district was at the corner of the block; Anya gestured Clarke inside and handed her a couple of bills. ‘On me. Get me something black, and if it comes within a foot of anything pumpkin-related I’ll kill the barista. I just have to call this producer before he has an embolism.’

 _It’s about Lexa._ Clarke spent most of her time in the queue worrying about what the hell that was supposed to mean, her bad temper leading her to conclusions ranging from _her foot’s fallen off_ to _the cat is dead_ , until a particularly loud laugh from the man behind her started her wishing that amputation was a legitimate cure for a headache.

It had finally started raining by the time Anya stalked back inside the shop, and she was in no mood to waste time as they sat down in the quietest corner. ‘Has Lexa ever mentioned her ex-girlfriend?’

Clarke choked on her latte. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Her ex-girlfriend. Has she ever mentioned her?’

‘Um. No.’

The choreographer nodded, unsurprised. ‘They met at high school. It’s a private one in the city designed to accommodate weird schedules, so all of us from the company went there. Costia, the girlfriend, was a child actor. Did the cute kid parts in every musical going, moved onto ads and the odd sitcom, hated every second of it. She quit as soon as she could and now she’s just started grad school in California.’

The mention of _Costia, the girlfriend,_ had given Clarke a tight feeling in her gut that she knew she had no right to. Anya looked at her appraisingly while she took a sip of coffee, before going on. ‘They were together the best part of five years. Sixteen through twenty-one. While they were both at school it was fine. Sometimes they’d barely see each other, when Lex was only in two periods a day because she was about to play Juliet in front of three thousand people, or Costia missed whole weeks because she was on a shoot. That was okay. That was normal. It was when Cos went to college that it started going to shit.’

‘How?’ Clarke asked automatically, but she was pretty sure she already knew.

‘Costia realized what normal really looks like,’ said Anya simply. ‘She went off to college and made new friends and watched them date each other in the way that regular people date. Movie nights, going out, dinner in the evenings. She had people who would come and pick her up if she drank too much. She could make plans in advance. And Lex was still at the company, got promoted to principal on her nineteenth birthday and had offers to guest all over the world, she was busier than ever and loving it. To be honest they didn’t see that much less of each other than they had when they were at school, but when Costia got out she realized she wanted something different. She wanted someone who would put their relationship first. Lexa couldn’t do that. So they broke up, just over a year ago.’

It reminded Clarke of the date on the newspaper cutting, and she put her mug down slowly as the pieces fell into place. As _haunting a portrayal of heartbreak as I have ever seen. She dances as though drowning in grief._

_Sometimes I just don't want to see it._

They sat in silence for a moment before Anya spoke again, choosing her words with uncharacteristic care. ‘I’m telling you this because I have reason to believe that my idiot protégé sees you as...let’s say more than a colleague.’ She shrugged offhandedly. ‘Granted, I have no idea how you feel. Maybe you’re not that way inclined, or maybe you’re not interested and I’m wasting my time, but, whatever. I have eyes. And I actually quite like you, even if you did think Balanchine was a type of synthetic fabric, so I want you to know now that what happened with Costia cannot happen again.’

Clarke sat completely frozen for what felt like hours, conscious of the dull pounding in her head but still wondering if she was dreaming. Eventually she caught Anya’s cool glance and shook her head slowly. ‘You can't just arrange things like that. Costia found she wanted more than Lexa could give her. It happens in relationships all the time.’

‘Exactly. That's why I’m making sure you know exactly what dating someone like Lexa means.’ As soon as Anya said it out loud, Clarke realized she’d never actually denied wanting to date Lexa; she felt herself blush like she’d been found out, but Anya hadn't even noticed. She’d assumed. ‘You need to understand that Costia wasn’t being a bitch about it. She did everything right. She was patient. She tried. She made an effort. She was way more reasonable than she had to be, by most people’s standards, and it still wasn’t enough.’ The choreographer put down her mug and leaned forward, arms folded on the table. ‘Dancers aren’t selfish people, Clarke. It’s not that they don’t try, or that they’re just obsessed and don’t care about anything else. Lex tried so hard with Costia, but half the time there just weren’t enough hours in the day to see her, and the other half Cos would come over after lectures and Lex would be practically passed out on the floor. It’s not that she _won’t_ make time, it’s that she _can’t_ , not always. And if you can’t deal with that, don’t make her think you can.’

Clarke was suddenly irritated. ‘This is pretty fucking heavy for a hypothetical relationship with a girl I barely know.’

Anya shrugged. ‘Lexa likes you. I can tell. And since as you say you barely know her, you don't know how rare that is. She doesn't get close to people. Me, Lincoln, Indra in a different way. Costia. She trusts all her love to a handful of people, and you shouldn’t get involved unless you’re happy with what you'll get in return.’

A particularly violent gust of wind hurled the rain against the windows, and the influx of sheltering passers-by was making it too loud for Clarke to think straight. It was as though she’d been given Lexa’s heart in her hands. Clarke remembered the broken, drowned expression of the girl in the newspaper cutting and realized too late why she had found it so heartbreaking: it was a desperately lonely face, and Clarke shied away from the thought of being able to make Lexa look like that.

It felt like she sat there for hours, coffee cooling between her frozen hands, before she realized that Anya was waiting for her to speak. She shook her head slowly, mechanically. ‘I don’t understand. You can’t _want_ her to be alone, surely? Because that’s kind of what it sounds like from here.’

Anya’s hands tightened around her elbows. ‘Believe me, Griffin - _Clarke -_ the last thing I want is for her to be alone. But it would be worse to see her think she has a shot, and see her let herself be happy, and then have it all come crashing down again. She deserves better.’

Clarke nodded bitterly. ‘You’re not a _better to have loved and lost_ kind of girl, are you?’

‘No.’ Anya was deadly serious. ‘Because Lexa has loved and lost, and anyone who saw it happen would go through fire to make sure it never happens again.’ She drained the last of her coffee and stood up abruptly. ‘So you be sure, Griffin. You be really fucking sure.’

 

***

 

The official fitting was much more formal than Clarke’s last visit to the company. She was met at the door by the extremely hot intern, who told her in awestruck tones that Indra herself was going to take her up to the costume shop, and left her in a plush waiting area so unlike the chalky floors and practical sparseness of the studios that Clarke had to grin to herself. Indra was smaller than she expected, but she had an unmistakeable air of authority much like Lexa’s; the assurance of the _prima ballerina_ , secure in her talent and her hard work, used to being respected and admired. Clarke liked her on sight, but was very aware that the company was the older woman’s kingdom. She didn’t need to see the intern scrambling to open the door for them to know that Indra’s word was law.

Having experienced Anya’s guard-dog side, it was reassuring to see her back in her natural habitat of the studio. ‘Lex, think of jumping _into_ him. Linc, try to catch her as she’s on the way up. Better. _Arms arms arms_. Linc, your trailing hand is dead.’ To Clarke, the flaws were invisible. She saw tapering fingers, perfectly-arched backs, limbs extended to create shapes that she itched to draw. There were other things to appreciate when she let herself look with more than her professional artist’s eye, from the perfect line of Lexa’s jaw to the smooth muscle of her shoulders. And there was something else besides the visual observations the designer was used to making, a warmth and a trust between the two dancers that transformed the steps into something honest and real. This was what Anya had been talking about, Clarke realized. This was what Lexa deserved.

They were only there for five minutes before the appointment at the costume shop, but it was long enough for Clarke to grin at the contrast between Anya’s exacting, occasionally foul-mouthed coaching and Indra’s one-line judgement as the rehearsal ended. ‘Fine. Try not to organize your shapes.’

This meant nothing to Clarke, but Lexa smirked knowingly at Lincoln as they swept up their bags and water bottles before the four of them fled to catch up with Indra. Anya checked her phone as they went down the corridors, stray dancers leaping out of the way before Indra’s purposeful stride, and swore viciously. ‘I swear to God, this fucking preview. Half the main cast have got flu or ebola or something. This is what happens when thespy people insist on kissing each other whenever they enter or leave a room.’ She dropped her phone back in her bag with a scowl. ‘Okay, I have to be out of here at ten to three. Let’s get a move on.’

Instead of an unused corner walled in by boxes, the formal fitting took place in one of the main dressing-rooms, which would probably have been spacious if there hadn’t been fifteen people inside. Clarke had instinctively taken charge the moment they entered the costume shop - _her_ territory - and it was quick work to introduce herself to the drapers, the seamstresses, the bodice specialist, the skirt specialist, and the director of costumes, and to smile at the extremely hot intern who was apparently the curator of the official company Instagram.

‘Nice,’ said Indra critically, before Lexa’s costume had even been taken off the hanger. ‘Same material as the skirts Karinska designed for _Serenade_? Good. It will move well.’

Lexa mouthed _high praise_ as she disappeared behind a screen to change, but Clarke barely noticed. This was her world, it was what she knew and loved and lived for, but these moments before seeing her design on its model for the first time were an unexpected torture. She had never designed anything where the _person_ mattered more than the clothes. Whatever Indra said, whatever Anya thought, Clarke had learned to trust her own instincts, and the opinion she was most worried about was her own.

But however much she thought she cared about her design, the first thing Clarke ended up noticing was that Lexa was smiling.

The ballerina stepped out from behind the screen with a whisper of black tulle skirts, the bodice fitted to her slim figure and gathered at the shoulders, and her face was glowing. _She likes it_ , Clarke realized with a fierce rush of joy, before she even looked at the dress and felt the exhilaration of seeing it at last and the relief of knowing that it was good. Lincoln had appeared from behind his screen on the other side of the room, and a draper was seeing to the fit of his less complicated costume of cream leggings and no shirt, but Clarke could only gaze at the girl in black with the feeling that everything was exactly the way it was supposed to be.

Indra was standing back, lips pursed. ‘Black can be a difficult color on stage. How will it be lit?’

Clarke came back to earth just in time to respond like a functional professional. ‘The lighting will be dark, at least for Lexa’s solo. There’ll be a spotlight, but it’ll be soft. The audience will be able to see your head and arms and legs, and the movement of the tulle, but no details. It’ll look like you’re part of the shadow. Then the lighting changes when you and Lincoln come together. It’s not a complicated effect, but I think it’ll be powerful.’

‘It will.’ Anya sounded completely certain. ‘I just want to see how it moves. Do the searching step from your solo, Lexa. The arabesque. Try not to kick Melissa in the head.’

The extremely hot intern backed away hastily as Lexa lifted up onto pointe, leg extended behind her, arms stretched forward imploringly. It was the theme movement of the first section of the ballet: a solo ballerina alone in the dark, missing someone, seeing them out of the corner of her eye and reaching out just too late. Clarke had seen the step before, the first time she had come to a rehearsal, but knowing about Costia made it harder to watch the dancer searching despairingly for someone who was no longer there.

_It’s only a ballet._

There were technical things to sort out, from the fit to the length to the ease of movement, but everyone knew it was going to be perfect. Indra left for her meeting with a simple ‘Good.’ Lincoln congratulated Clarke with his usual sincerity before he went to his rehearsal. Anya lingered at the door on her way to save the doomed preview and took a final look back. ‘Yeah,’ she said eventually, quietly, sounding almost amazed. ‘Yeah, that works.’

The drapers and assorted hangers-on dispersed as another procession of dancers arrived for their fittings, Octavia giving Clarke a cheery wave as she passed the open door, and eventually only Clarke and Lexa were left. Clarke smiled up at the ballerina out of habit, remembered Anya’s words and concentrated determinedly on finishing pinning up the hem.

Lexa broke the silence after what seemed like hours. ‘Clarke.’

‘Mmhmm?’

‘What's going on?’

Clarke took the pins out of her mouth and flashed what she hoped was a casual yet disarming smile. ‘Much as I enjoyed our previous encounter at the back the costume shop, this actually is how a dress fitting normally proceeds.’

‘I don't mean the fitting.’ Lexa’s eyes were very soft and Clarke looked down again hurriedly. ‘You keep glancing at me like I’m...a flight risk. I'm not going anywhere.’

Clarke sat back on her heels, then straightened up and looked the ballerina directly in the eye to stop herself backing out. ‘Anya came to see me.’

‘How dare she…?’

‘She told me about Costia.’

Lexa’s soft expression disappeared. She stood very still, jaw locked, her left hand closing and unclosing once against the black of her skirts. Clarke took an involuntary step back before she realized the coldness in the ballerina's eyes wasn’t directed at her. ‘She had no right to do that.’

‘I know. I’m sorry, I -’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why did she tell you?’

 _Just in case you’re hopelessly in love with me and I can’t handle it_. Clarke hadn’t really thought through how she would explain the conversation without outright accusing Lexa of liking her. ‘She...noticed that we spent a lot of time together at O’s party.’

Lexa’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not a sociopath. I spent time with lots of people. Pretty sure I spent an hour just talking to Octavia’s brother about Greek tragedy.’

‘Yeah, that sounds about right.’ Clarke sighed and tried not to stumble over her words. ‘She thinks we have something, or the potential for something, and she was just...warning me. She said that Costia hadn’t been able to live with your dancing and the breakup had been hard for you and...I shouldn’t date you if I wouldn’t be able to live with it either.’

Lexa stared and shook her head slightly, doubting that she’d heard right. ‘Do you want to date me?’

 _Yes._ ‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you ever want to date me?’

Clarke avoided the question. ‘We barely know each other. I don’t, I mean...I don’t know where she got this from. It came out of nowhere.’

‘Where she got it from isn’t important. She doesn't tell just anyone about my tragic past, so she must have had a reason. Do you have any questions?’

‘It’s not my place.’

‘It is now. If you’re going to be warned about me it’s only fair that you understand.’ Lexa clenched her jaw for a second and looked down. ‘I loved Costia and she loved me. The only _warning_ to be taken from our relationship is how terrible it is to be in love and still be wrong for each other. And I don’t know what Anya said, but that has nothing to do with _now_. It has nothing to do with you.’

‘You can't possibly know I’m more right for you than Costia was.’

‘No,’ said Lexa flatly. ‘But at least your job is hardly nine-to-five, so you of all people can understand what it’s -’

‘It doesn’t matter!’ Clarke snapped it at her, louder than she’d meant, the stress and the headache and the pressure rising up beyond her ability to control herself. She hoped she’d imagined Lexa flinching. ‘Whether or not you’re busy, or I’m busy - that's just a detail. What matters is that you’ve had your heart broken and I’ve heard, I’ve _seen_ how much it hurt you. And I may barely know you, but I can’t bear the thought of hurting you like that.’ She finally dropped her voice, and realized too late that she sounded almost defeated. ‘That’s not a fair foundation for any relationship.’

‘I think I get some say in whether or not I want to risk getting my heart broken.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ repeated Clarke, turning away. ‘That’s not - I need to think. I can’t date you if I’m always scared of things going wrong.’

Lexa looked at her for a long moment, her level gaze suddenly blank and formal. ‘I’m sorry you had to deal with all this. You didn’t deserve it.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ replied Clarke instinctively, but she didn’t turn around, and it was only when Lexa came to stand beside her with her arms full of tulle that she realized the ballerina had already changed back into her practice clothes.

‘Clarke.’

‘What?’

Lexa touched the gather at one of the shoulders, one of the few intricate features of the clean, simple costume; beautifully sewn, decorated with black-on-black embroidery. ‘This detailing...Clarke, the audience will be thirty feet away.’ _They’ll never see it_.

‘I know. But I remembered what you said. That it helps to feel beautiful.’ Clarke met Lexa’s eyes, by accident, as she took the dress and moved to hang it back in its bag. The ballerina handed it over in silence, and her eyes were soft again when Clarke looked up. ‘I don’t think you need any help from me, but...if I can make you feel beautiful, I will. I want to.’

She didn’t look at Lexa as she left.

 

***

 

The theater where Anya's preview was taking place was in chaos when Lexa arrived a few hours later, so there was no difficulty getting in and sitting down unobtrusively in the back row. The shambles on stage was supposed to be a new musical, and it would be a pretty good one once the alarming number of understudies knew what they were doing and the relief stage manager worked out how to operate the scenery. Anya, striding up and down the third row miked up to be heard over the music, was just finishing giving the performers her uniquely invigorating brand of tough love. ‘You’ll be fine. You know the steps. I just wish you’d tell your faces.’

Lexa slipped out before someone recognized her and waited for Anya just outside the stage door. It was still raining, but she was banking on the fact that the choreographer wouldn’t want to hang around, and she hadn’t been there long before Anya appeared. Lexa wasn’t sure whether she imagined the guilty flicker in her eyes.

‘Hey, Lex. What are you doing here?’

‘I’ll give you three guesses.’

‘Lincoln’s run away to join the circus?’

‘Fuck off,’ snapped Lexa. ‘You know why, and I want to know how the hell you knew how I felt about Clarke. Did your girlfriend tell you?’

‘ _Hey_.’ Anya stepped forward, eyes glinting dangerously. ‘ _Raven_ didn’t tell me anything. Just said you came over to talk to me about Clarke.’

‘That could have meant anything!’

‘Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, Lex, I’m not blind!’ Anya threw her hands up dramatically. ‘Don’t play dumb, you’re way too smart for that. Unfortunately, you’re also not nearly smart enough to see that Clarke likes you probably nearly as much as you like her, and if I hadn’t put the brakes on there could have been a very fucking spectacular car crash.’

‘Anya, that is _none of your business._ ’

‘It is my goddamn business, 'cause if I don't look out for you fuck me if anyone else will.’

The silence slammed down. Anya looked almost startled. Lexa had stepped back involuntarily as though she’d been slapped, and her heart bumped painfully against her ribs, but when she heard herself speak her voice was cold and composed. ‘What did you say?’

Anya groaned and rubbed her eyes. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Which bit? The bit where you said that no one else cares about me? Oh, wait. That was _almost exactly what you said_.’

‘ _No._ No, it wasn’t. You know that’s not true.’ All the anger was gone from Anya’s voice. She suddenly sounded more tired than Lexa had heard her for years. ‘You are not good at looking after your own heart, Lex. You mean to be, but the heart is a horrible little insurrectionist and it does whatever it likes, and you are fucking terrible at protecting yourself from being let down. Excuse the bluntness, but you are. Someone has to stop you getting hurt.’

‘ _Bullshit_.’

‘It isn’t. You love too much, Lex. You love too much and not often enough. And it scares me.’ She reached out a hand tentatively. ‘I’m scared when I see you do it because I don’t want, I _can’t_ let you get burned again. Not like last time.’

‘So who are you really protecting?’ Anya had been her constant for so long that Lexa could almost feel herself crumbling. ‘She won’t look at me, Anya. She says she can’t even date me _just in case_ something goes wrong and she hurts me.’

‘Lexa…’

‘I can’t.’ She felt herself deflating, the hope running out of her the moment she said the words. ‘I thought Costia was a false start. I thought I could dance and be loved at the same time. But if you’re going to scare away everyone I touch, the second I look at someone twice, maybe I can’t after all.’

Anya reached for her one last time, almost pleadingly. ‘Stop. You’re soaking. Let me drive you home -’

‘Oh, bite me,’ snarled Lexa, walking away so furiously that it took five minutes to realize she was going in the wrong direction, and ten to realize she was crying.

  



	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! First, thank you so much for all the lovely comments on the last chapter, they really do make my day! 
> 
> Second, I don't think I've ever actually said this, but please feel free to ask me if you're confused or curious about any of the ballet stuff, or you want to know more about Lexa's life as a ballerina :) My tumblr is southsouthwest and my askbox is always open, or I read all the comments (with much much appreciation) so you can ask anything there as well.

_Missed call from Anya Hunter 18:36_

**Anya Hunter (18:40):** Lex

_Missed call from Anya Hunter 18:47_

**Anya Hunter (18:53):** Lexa please talk to me

_Missed call from Anya Hunter 18:56_

_Missed call from Anya Hunter 18:59_

**Anya Hunter (19:03):** At least let me know you got home safe

 **Anya Hunter (19:15):** Lexa I’m not fucking around, they’ve just put a storm warning out for tonight, please don’t do anything stupid

 

***

 

 **Unknown Number (19:25):** Lexa this is Raven

 **Unknown Number (19:25):** Is everything OK?

 **Unknown Number (19:27):** Anya said you had a fight

 **Unknown Number (19:29):** She’s really upset if that’s any consolation

 **Unknown Number (19:29):** Well maybe upset isn’t the right word

 **Unknown Number (19:29):** She called me and breathed weirdly for five minutes and said ‘fuck’ and hung up

 **Unknown Number (19:29):** But if it’s about what we talked about at the weekend I swear I didn’t tell her

 **Unknown Number (19:31):** Oh wait

 **Unknown Number (19:31):** I think I mentioned Clarke

 **Unknown Number (19:31):** And she did go a bit quiet

 **Unknown Number (19:32):** Shit I fucked up. I’m so sorry

 **Unknown Number (19:36):** Anyway she’s really worried about you

 **Unknown Number (19:40):** Please call her

 

***

 

Lexa walked in a straight line for the best part of half an hour. Passers-by moved hastily out of her way, evidently deciding that the drenched brunette with the murderous expression would be unreceptive to debating the finer points of sidewalk etiquette, or perhaps that someone braving the downpour in a peacoat and no umbrella was simply too crazy to be reasoned with.

Lexa did actually have an umbrella, tucked away in her bag with her pointe shoes, but she started off too angry to put it up and then found that she welcomed the rain on her face. The weight of her sodden scarf around her neck and the drip of water down her collar gave her something else to think about. She took advantage of a red light to jam a couple more pins into her hair, sick of loose strands blowing stingingly into her face, but mostly she just shoved her hands into her pockets and walked and walked and walked.

She didn’t plan to end up at the Public Library, but it was a route she’d taken a hundred times in the past, spending weekend afternoons in its gold-ceilinged reading room catching up on school. Going inside would have meant facing the compulsive helpfulness of the librarians at the welcome desk, not to mention scholars glaring over their glasses and bookstands as she dripped all over the nice shiny floor, so she sat down on the wet stone under the huge classical portico and hugged her knees. Everything felt tight, her skin stretched too thin over her bones, her body too small to accommodate her exhaustion and frustration and sheer, seething anger. Forced to a halt only because she couldn’t feel her legs, she tipped her head back against the wall and focused on her breathing, visualizing herself repeating a step sequence back and forth across some clean, bright, empty studio. _Tombé, pas de bourrée, glissade, grand jeté. Tombé, pas de bourrée, glissade, grand jeté. Tombé, pas de bourrée..._

She wanted to hit something.

_If I hadn’t put the brakes on there could have been a very fucking spectacular car crash._

_Someone has to stop you getting hurt._

_If I don't look out for you fuck me if anyone else will._

_Fuck me if anyone else will._

_Fuck this._

_Fuck you._

Lexa had absolutely no problem with Anya having opinions. In her first year at the school, she’d relied on the older girl’s mysterious blend of forcing her to stand on her own feet and knowing exactly what to do whenever she stumbled. Anya had been the one she’d eventually learned to turn to when she’d had a tough class, when she got her apprenticeship over the heads of the older girls, when she got her first principal role; when she was dithering over whether to ask Costia out and how the hell she was supposed to go about it. That time, Anya had just kicked her gently, one of her primary methods of demonstrating affection, and told her to get on with it instead of being a useless teenager. ‘You’re at least thirty-five in in everything else you do. Who knew you were going to turn out to be such a gay disaster?’

She was under no illusions about how much she owed Anya, how much she had needed her, how much she _still_ needed her. She loved Anya, as much as she loved anyone. But that made it all worse.

_If I don't look out for you fuck me if anyone else will._

Lexa sat and shivered and turned it all over in her mind again and again. It was a habit gained from years of watching herself in the mirror and endlessly analysing her own performances, and she couldn’t stop even though she _knew_ it would just bring her a relentless parade of new reasons to be devastated. Doubt, she could have dealt with. She would have understood if Anya had warned _her_. But actually going to see Clarke and telling her to keep her hands off...No one had the right to _put the brakes on_ unless they were the damn driver.

_Someone has to stop you getting hurt._

‘Bullshit,’ said Lexa out loud, only half muffled in her scarf. She’d always known Anya was protective and not afraid to show it, but she’d never realized she was so _breathtakingly_ calculating. It wasn’t a punch to the stomach or a slap in the face; it was a shrug, casual, dismissive, infinitely more painful. _Well, it’s not like you can look after yourself, so..._

‘We’re closed, sister. Borrowing ended at seven-thirty.’

Lexa’s head snapped round, startled, to see a librarian looking at her doubtfully from under a City Hall-branded golf umbrella. She murmured some kind of response and realized, stretching out her legs and shivering extra-vigorously, that if it was past seven-thirty she’d been sitting there for almost an hour. She hadn’t even noticed it getting dark. _Get a fucking grip, Woods,_ she told herself automatically, but it still took a conscious effort to drag herself back to her cold, wet, aching reality. Her fingers had gone numb enough that it took her fifteen clumsy seconds to scrabble her phone out of her pocket, and three tries to open the exhaustingly long list of missed calls and panicked texts.

Anya’s she ignored without opening. Raven’s got a cursory scan. The third conversation she knew she had no choice but to pay attention to, partly because it was still buzzing away insistently and partly because it was from Lincoln.

 **Lincoln Eastman (19:35):** What's going on?

 **Lincoln Eastman (19:35):** Indra got a call from Anya and now she and Kane are driving around midtown looking for you

 **Lincoln Eastman (19:36):** Indra once told me that cars are obesity’s version of a gateway drug so don’t try to tell me this is normal behavior

 **Lincoln Eastman (19:42):** Lex?

 **Lincoln Eastman (19:43):** Let me help

 **Lincoln Eastman (19:43):** You know what Anya’s like, she’ll file a missing persons report if she doesn’t hear from you before it gets dark

This was so true that Lexa stabbed _Anya can suck my dick_ into the reply bubble before taking a long, slow breath and deleting it. It would have been nice to say that sending Indra and Kane out on a city-wide manhunt was a ridiculous overreaction to an hour of radio silence, but she had to admit that she had form for disappearing. The day of her injury, a year before, she’d discharged herself from hospital without telling anyone and caught a cab back to the ballet school, hobbling up to the roof on her crutches and collapsing in the corner she’d adopted as her hideout years before. She’d spent several hours drinking whiskey and crying in the dark before Lincoln guessed where she was.

 **Lexa Woods (19:45):** I can’t talk to Anya.

 _Lincoln Eastman calling_.

Lexa only just stopped herself from rejecting the call automatically, and watched it ring till it was almost too late. She had never actually been able to ignore Lincoln. She had tried once or twice when they first arrived at the school, but he had such an irritating insistence on doing the right thing that he’d persisted despite the fact that she just stared him down, tongue-tied by shyness and shut down by grief, whenever he tried to talk to her. The thaw had been gradual, but then - as now - he was too fundamentally _kind_ to freeze out forever.

She picked up on what was almost certainly the last ring. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey.’ He sounded surprised she’d actually answered. That was fair. She had a reputation. ‘Are you okay? I don’t know what Anya said but Indra came dangerously close to expressing genuine human concern.’

‘I’m fine, Linc. Wet. But fine. You can tell everyone to stand down.’

‘Lexa Woods, you’d better not be outside.’ Lincoln sighed deep enough to be heard down the line. ‘Wait, don’t answer that. I know you’re not on the roof because I was literally just there, which means I also know you must be soaked.’

‘It’s just rain. I needed to get out.’

‘Let me come pick you up.’ There was a long silence. ‘Please, Lex. You don’t have to talk. I just…I don’t want you to feel like you have to be alone.’

Lexa agreed, partly because she didn’t have the energy to argue and partly because the warmth and worry in Lincoln’s voice made her realize how cold and tired she was. The tantalizing prospect of getting out of the wind and drying off even gave her something new to focus on while she waited for him to arrive, at least until her phone buzzed with another text just as his car was pulling up.

 **Anya Hunter (20:05):** I know you’re not okay. I just want to know you’re safe.

Lexa typed three words and threw the phone into her bag.

 **Lexa Woods (20:06):** Go to hell.

 

***

 

Clarke made it all the way out into the street before she realized that she was still clutching the garment bag for dear life. She’d just stretched out her hand to hail a cab but she snatched it back as though she’s been burned, and stood motionless on the sidewalk with the rain falling and both arms wrapped around the dress. Her dress. Lexa’s dress.

The cars sped by, the rain fell, and people streamed past with their heads down as though she wasn’t even there. It felt like she was dreaming or drunk, in that weird state where she couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. The bright lights of the dressing-room, the pincushion on her wrist, tulle between her fingers - she had to remind herself that she hadn’t imagined it all. The warm promise of Lexa’s skin beneath the fabric. Her beautiful, confusing eyes as she put it on for the first time. _She likes it._

But that meant she had to remember everything they’d said. Something tightened inside her as she remembered how cold those eyes had gone, how the ballerina’s fingers had clenched and her jaw had set and all the softness had disappeared from her voice. Clarke shivered involuntarily as she was about to remember Lexa flinching away and shutting down. It was easier to focus on picking out another cab.

She couldn’t have _lost_ anything, because she’d never had anything in the first place. But that didn’t stop her feeling like something was missing.

Getting back to the studio helped somewhat, in that it gave her things to think about that weren’t costumes and ballet and _especially_ ballerinas. For once she welcomed the flood of emails, the calls she convinced herself she should return immediately, the inane questions from the personal assistant whose salary apparently wasn’t enough to unlock her ability to take the initiative. The familiarity helped to keep her thoughts away from what a strange, shattering day she’d really had. Clarke had inherited a good dose of work ethic from each of her workaholic parents, honed by starting her own line and being her own boss, so it worked for a while. But all the discipline and focus in the world couldn’t stop her stomach twisting painfully when the light caught the iridescent gray fabric she was working with and brought out just enough green to remind her of those damn eyes.

She didn’t really _decide_ to take Lexa’s dress home with her. It would have made more sense to leave it in the studio, and work on it tomorrow when she had the good light and plenty of willing hands to help her out, but she picked it up automatically as she left and couldn’t quite bring herself to put it back.

 _Is that a metaphor_ , she debated in the cab, _because it sure as hell feels like one._

She knew instinctively that she couldn’t just pin Lexa back on her moodboard, trap her in the pages of her sketchbook, go back to thinking of her as a muse and a model and a body to hang clothes on. Which, given that the dress rehearsal was on Wednesday and the gala was on Saturday and Lexa’s presence was somewhat essential at both, meant that Clarke was entirely screwed.

Nightfall left her edgy and restless. She rattled around her apartment, trying out all her chairs in turn, only managing a few pages of her book each time before getting up and staring out the window or looking at the pictures on the walls. She did her laundry and folded it twice. She rearranged her cutlery drawer. She did everything she could to distract herself from the uneasy feeling that she’d messed up, and that trying to do the right thing hadn’t been the right thing after all.

The garment-bag was hanging on the back of the front door where she’d left it, and eventually Clarke had to admit that she’d been steering clear of it all night. It was always in the background, a dark shape in the corner of her eye, somewhere in the back of her mind; by trying not to think about it, she realized, she’d really thought about nothing else.

_Definitely a metaphor._

The designer glanced thoughtfully from the garment-bag to the mannequin in the corner, and flipped open the notebook she’d used earlier to record the alterations she needed to make. An eighth of an inch here, a gather there, a bit more give in the waist. All perfectly doable. She could throw herself into work like she usually did and spend the whole time thinking about the beautiful body which belonged inside the clothes, or she could mope around her apartment and think about it twice as hard.

She got out her workbox and started pinning.

 

***

 

Lincoln was a small-town guy at heart. His apartment was a mismatch of armchairs donated by cousins, fading craft projects by younger siblings, a patchwork quilt sewn by his grandma - one of three he owned - draped over the sofa. It was a warm, snug, ordinary mess of furniture and memories that made Lexa happy and sad in equal measure. She had a quilt too, a gift from the same grandma the first time she’d spent Christmas with the Eastmans, and her own apartment was equally full of old things, but she’d found them abandoned on street corners or unearthed them at auctions and they were full of other people’s stories, not hers. Lincoln would never realize how precious it was to know whose hair straighteners had made the burn on a coffee table, or who’d spilt paint on the rug. Whenever she visited she got a hopeful, longing glimpse of how _home_ was meant to be.

‘Hot chocolate or decaf?’

‘Linc, I’m fine.’

‘You're freezing and miserable. I’m going blue just looking at you. Both literally and emotionally.’

‘Chocolate. Please.’

‘That's my girl.’ He stepped into the kitchen and raised his voice over the whirr of the coffee machine. ‘You’ll catch cold if you don’t take those clothes off.’

‘Congratulations, that’s the most romantic thing a man has ever said to me.’

‘You're welcome. Put on some of my stuff and I’ll drive you home once you’ve warmed up. And eaten.’

Lexa felt herself try to smile for the first time that evening, but her cheeks were too tired and reluctant to pull it off. She scrubbed her hands over her face and concentrated on peeling off her wet jeans, folding them methodically, swaddling herself in one of Lincoln's enormous hoodies and a pair of track pants which pooled around her feet and had to be held up at the waist.

Lincoln snorted as she waddled into the kitchen. ‘You wearing my clothes will never not be funny.’

‘ _Yo_ _u’re_ never not funny.’ Lexa tried and failed to reach her preferred seat on the countertop without letting go of the track pants, but grudgingly allowed Lincoln to lift her up and - less grudgingly - took the mug he pressed into her hands. ‘Thanks.’

‘Warmer?’

‘Much.’ The ballerina sighed dismally and pulled her damp hair out of its bun with her free hand. ‘I’m an idiot.’

‘You’ve been sitting in a puddle for an hour, so yeah, you definitely are.’

‘Remember that shoot we did for the _Times_ when we did our first _Romeo_?’

‘It’s different if you’re being _told_ to stand in the rain.’ It had been their first media feature, aged sixteen and eighteen, so they were entirely at the mercy of a photographer who was convinced that an empty parking lot during a summer thunderstorm was the perfect set, but spent the entire shoot under the umbrella an assistant was holding patiently over his head. Lincoln scanned the hundreds of photos stuck to his fridge and handed Lexa a behind-the-scenes snap of them after the nightmare was over, dwarfed by their huge quilted coats. ‘At least we look happy.’

‘Pretty sure we’re actually hysterical.’

Lincoln came to stand beside her and grinned down at the photo. ‘That was such a great season. Everyone was so sure we’d bomb.’

‘Not everyone.’ _Not Anya_. ‘Indra wasn’t.’

‘No.’

Lexa sat still on the countertop, swinging her legs absently, nose buried in the clean, soft detergent smell from the hoodie. Lincoln nursed his own hot chocolate and said nothing. True to his word, he never actually pushed Lexa to talk about anything, but the very effective alternative was to stay quiet and wait for her to get there on her own. After ten years he’d learned that she’d start off just needing company, someone to sit with while she focused on her breathing and tried to stop beating herself up, but eventually she’d crack. People who thought the ballerina was the stoic, silent type just hadn’t waited long enough.

‘I’m sorry you were worried.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘No, it isn’t. None of this was your fault. Or Indra’s, or Kane’s. Or Raven’s.’ Lexa swallowed and watched the steam rise from the mug. Lincoln had drawn a heart with the foam, because of course he had. ‘I was just mad at Anya. Really mad. She went further than I ever thought she’d go. No, not further, more...backwards.’

‘Lex...’

‘I’m serious. She’s realized she can’t protect me from myself any more, so she’s decided to make sure I just don’t get to make any choices. Makes sense, really. Can’t doom myself to more heartbreak if no one will volunteer to break my heart in the first place. Her logic is fucking flawless.’

Lincoln hesitated. ‘All Anya’s ever wanted is for you to be -’

‘Happy?’ Lexa nodded bitterly and picked at a loose thread on her cuff. ‘Nice justification. Still a shitty thing to do.’

The kitchen was silent again. The ballerina hated that she could feel her shoulders sagging, her head hanging, her fingers clinging way too tight to her mug. She hated that it had taken so little to make her care this much about Clarke. She hated that she had ten years of reasons to care about Anya. She hated that if it had been anyone but Clarke who’d been scared away, and anyone but Anya who’d scared her, it would have mattered so much less.

Lincoln opened and closed his mouth twice without speaking. Lexa, remembering her tendency to skip straight from Point A to Point D when stressed, realized that he still didn’t know what Anya had actually done. ‘She told Clarke about Costia. And how it ended.’

‘Fuck,’ sighed Lincoln, deflating against the edge of the counter. ‘That explains a lot.’

‘The puddle-sitting?’

‘Yeah.’

Lexa felt the corner of her mouth quirk up and began to trace a pattern into her thigh with a fingertip. It was a habit whenever she was plucking up the courage to ask a question she didn’t really want an answer to. ‘Do you think it didn't work out because of Costia? Or because of me?’

‘Don’t do this, Lex. It was both of you and neither of you. You didn't fit each other any more.’

‘You don’t think there’s something wrong with me?’

Lincoln’s eyes narrowed. ‘If Anya’s been making you think there’s something _wrong_ with you -’

‘Not with _me_ , then. This lifestyle. This schedule.’

Her partner hesitated, weighing up each word. ‘I mean, not everyone gets it. That’s why so many of us - so many people in the company date other dancers. But it’s not impossible, not with the right person.’

‘That’s what I thought, before Anya got involved and the whole thing blew up in my face.’ Tracing the pattern grew more vicious, turned into scraping. ‘She had no right. Not before I had the chance to try again.’

‘I know. But…’

‘No.’

‘Lexa.’

‘Don’t you dare take her side on this.’

‘I don’t take _sides_ , Lexa. I’m just here. I’m always here. You know that.’

It was as close to _cold_ as Lincoln ever sounded. Lexa hated apologizing - she’d got that from Anya - but she sighed and smoothed her fingers once over the bridge of her nose, and nudged his shoulder tentatively. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean...If you want to say something, say it.’

‘As long as you swear not to take it the wrong way.’ Her partner stepped between her legs so that she couldn’t avoid looking at him, and gently stilled her hand from carving bits out of her thigh. ‘You have to talk to Anya. You have to make this right.’

‘Why do _I_ have to -’

‘Lex, shut up. Think about it. The gala’s on Saturday. It’s your big comeback, you’re dancing better than ever, the ballet’s great, and it’s all going to be ruined if you and Anya won’t talk to each other. I want you to - we _all_ want you to enjoy this season. These last few weeks you’ve been _happy_. And you won’t be happy again until you clear the air.’ No response. ‘Lexa? I mean it.’

‘I heard you.’ The ballerina sat still, gazing at him or rather through him as she turned it over in her mind. The idea of making the first move grated, but her logical half - the half she usually prided herself on - knew that she and Anya were perfectly capable of staring each other down forever if one of them didn’t deliberately make the sacrifice to blink first. They were both stubborn enough.

‘Okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Good.’ Lincoln squeezed her shoulders affectionately. ‘Can I have a hug?’

‘Sap.’

‘Moron.’

Lexa grinned properly for the first time that night and complied, arms around his neck as he lifted her off the counter and set her down carefully on the floor. ‘Where would I be without you?’

‘Hungry.’ Lincoln released her with a final squeeze and turned towards the fridge, rummaging in the crisper and pulling out vegetables. Lexa narrowly caught the head of broccoli he tossed at her. ‘You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten. Antioxidants are good for the soul.’

_If I don't look out for you fuck me if anyone else will._

Anya was so full of shit.

 

***

 

The world outside was no friendlier the next morning, still storming and steaming and blowing umbrellas inside-out, but Lexa felt better. She slept well, worn out by the deadly combination of aching muscles and loud, bruising thoughts, and woke up to find that the anger and disappointment of the previous day had lost their initial bite. Cooking and eating and reminiscing with Lincoln had taken the edge off. She was still mad, but it was manageable.

She’d arranged to go in early, so she prioritized a scaldingly-hot shower and ate breakfast on the subway. The rain made the trains even more packed and the travelers even more bad-tempered than usual, but the ballerina didn’t mind it as much as she might have done. In the circumstances, being crushed to death by a handsy teenage couple on one side and an enormous pinstriped man on the other was a reassuring reminder that the clock kept running and some things would never change, even when Lexa’s private world felt like it had contracted.

Fifteen minutes for a coffee in the empty break room and a glance through the paper. Half an hour sitting on the studio floor with Octavia, showing her how to catch up excess satin and shape a pointe shoe to her foot. Ninety minutes of company class to warm up and settle into her day. The dancers bent and stretched, relevéd up and pliéd down, each movement rhythmical and familiar and each one getting them a little bit more ready for the vast range of potential physical and mental hurdles which had to be jumped over in the last week of rehearsals. The proximity of the gala had got everyone slightly spooked. Octavia was paler than usual, working her way through the exercises with grim determination. Kane, whose turn it was to stand at the front and instruct, sounded preoccupied, and Indra - in her preferred role prowling around the rows of dancers - corrected sloppy toes and lazy extensions with twice her usual energy. Lexa was so used to having eyes on her that most of the time it barely registered, but it did feel as though the ballet-master spent a disproportionate amount of time passing the corner of the studio where she and Octavia were standing side-by-side at the barre.

She had been about to write it off as paranoia when Indra called her over as class ended.

‘I have to get to rehearsal -’

‘Yes, for _Serenade_. I fixed that. You’re expected at ten past.’ Indra leaned against the piano, watching the other dances disperse. ‘I was impressed with Octavia this morning. She should have an excellent season.’

Lexa was ninety percent sure that Indra was stalling, which was an extremely bad sign. ‘Definitely. She’s been well taught, and she’ll only get better with time.’

‘I should hope so. But she is already more than prepared for the gala.’ Indra cleared her throat, spectacularly unconvincingly. ‘The fall gala is very important, Lexa. You know that.’

Stalling was bad. Subtlety was worse. ‘Of course.’

‘The critics come. The donors. The raffle-winners.’

 _In descending order of importance._ ‘I know.’

‘It has to be good.’

‘Where are you going with this, Indra?’

The ballet-master huffed impatiently, abandoning any attempt at tact or diplomacy. ‘Anya called. She is no longer coming to your rehearsal this afternoon. I know you and she had an argument, and it may not be my place to comment personally, but obviously I am concerned professionally.’

Lexa blinked and tried not to look surprised. She’d been so determined to get away from Anya the night before that it hadn’t even crossed her mind that Anya might not want to see _her_. ‘We’re both adults, Indra. The ballet will be fine.’

‘Then why isn’t she here?’

‘I don’t know. She’s probably at the Palace. Her new musical previews tonight and she has a whole cast of terrified understudies to yell at.’

Indra sniffed. ‘If it’s not ready now it never will be.’

‘Give her a break, the entire company has the plague.’

‘Plague is fatal.’

Lexa prayed for strength. ‘Not unless you’re a peasant in medieval London. Anyway, that’s not the point. She’ll stay for the preview, give them notes and be back here tomorrow. We’ll have her undivided attention. It’ll be unbearable.’

‘It had better be.’ The ballet-master gave her the kind of look that pinned less experienced dancers to the floor. ‘I mean it, Lexa. You’ll dance better if you’re not distracted by...whatever it is you’re fighting about, which I neither know nor care.’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Fix it.’

‘I will.’

Indra nodded curtly, which was typically the cue to leave. Lexa slung her shoe-bag over one shoulder and her practice skirt over the other arm, mind already running ahead to how she was going to fix it and how much ground she was going to give. Both she and Anya played hardball, so it was likely to get messy.

‘And you’ll enjoy it more,’ called Indra at the ballerina’s retreating back, trying and failing to sound offhand. ‘Not that that will matter to the critics.’

 

***

 

‘Wine,’ said Octavia firmly when she opened the door that evening and saw Clarke standing there, make-up free and hair unbrushed. ‘You need wine.’

‘Vodka,’ sighed Clarke as she trailed over the threshold. ‘I need vodka.’

‘Oh, hell no. Not in gala week. You’re having wine or beer, and I don’t want to be a bad friend or anything but you’re gonna have to drink it while I sew my shoes. If I don’t get them done tonight I’ll be dancing barefoot tomorrow, and Indra will tie me to the piano and perform a ritual sacrifice to set an example to the others.’ The dancer shut the door and deposited her friend in the corner of the couch while she hunted through the cupboard for clean glasses. ‘Tough day at work? You look exhausted.’

‘I was up all night doing some alterations.’ Clarke took the hugely welcome, hugely full glass of red wine and smiled up at Octavia. ‘You’re the light of my life, you know that?’

‘If you’re feeling _really_ grateful you could massage my shoulders while I sew.’

Octavia flopped on the floor, legs stretched out to either side in an obnoxiously effortless split, and emptied her shoe-bag in front of her. Clarke counted five pairs of flawless satin pointe shoes, one roll each of of pink satin ribbons and skin-colored elastic, a box of dental floss, one Stanley knife, one pair of scissors, a book of needles, a lighter, and two bottles of glue individually sealed in three layers of plastic bags. ‘You look like you’re about to perform surgery.’

‘Only routine. I usually do the sewing on the subway, but Lexa came in early this morning to show me how she gets them so tailored round the arch. I knew she must have such great hair for a reason. It’s full of secrets.’ She looked up to smirk at Clarke, and her jaw dropped as she caught the designer’s expression. ‘This is about Lexa, isn’t it? Daaaamn. I knew there was something Lincoln wasn’t telling me.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Nothing. He was just being even more of a mother hen than usual. What happened?’

‘I told her I wouldn’t go out with her.’

‘Holy _fuck.’_ Octavia stared. ‘Lexa asked you out? When, yesterday? Why am I only finding out -’

‘Not exactly.’

‘- now? Oh. What? She didn’t ask you out?’

‘Um. No.’

‘Then what the fuck,’ began Octavia, speaking very slowly and clearly, ‘possessed you to give the _pre-emptive_ brushoff to Lexa fucking Woods when on Friday night, or rather Saturday morning, you came up to me and told me, quote, you ‘kind of want to pull her hair, but not in a mean way, in a sex way, I need you to understand that I mean in a sex way’?’

Clarke winced. ‘I do not remember doing that.’

‘Okay. Regardless. You’d better have a really good reason.’

‘I just…’ Having had twenty-four hours to reflect, Clarke was _really_ struggling to remember why she had done this painful, crazy, self-sacrificing, self-destructive thing. ‘I thought it was better that we didn’t go there.’

‘How could dating Lexa possibly be so terrible that you can't even _try_ it? Did she kill someone?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘You should find out, I'm ninety percent sure Anya is actually a highly trained -’

‘I don’t want to hurt her.’ _Oh, yeah. That was why._ ‘Her last relationship ended about this time last year, and it kind of...broke her.’ Clarke remembered the newspaper cutting and those empty, desolate eyes, and took a gulp of wine. ‘I saw a picture of her from when it happened, when she was doing _Swan Lake_. She looked shattered. I never want to be able to do that to her.’

‘Oh, boy. Okay.’ Octavia put the shoe down and planted her hands on her thighs. ‘So maybe it's the fumes from this glue, but I thought you just told me that you once saw _a picture of Lexa looking sad_ and now you can't even go on one date because you're afraid of breaking her heart. Clarke, have you ever heard of the phrase running before you can walk? Cause you're not just running, you're currently doing a fucking marathon at sprint pace.’

Clarke said nothing, fiddling with the stem of her glass. Octavia spoke again, making an audible effort to sound kinder and less like she thought Clarke was certifiably insane. ‘Clarke, I love you and I want you to be happy, and this is like cutting off your hand in case someday you sprain your wrist.’

‘It’s not just that.’ The designer sighed and stretched out full-length on the couch. ‘Her ex broke up with her because Lexa wouldn’t, no, _couldn’t_ make time for her. She was always dancing, or recovering from dancing, or getting ready to dance. And I don’t know if I’m...understanding enough to deal with that.’

‘She’s just as much of a hostage to ballet as I am, and you still see me.’

‘Ye-e-es. But it’s different when you’re _with_ someone. You need them more.’

‘Maybe.’ There was a long pause as Octavia measured out lengths of ribbon and elastic. ‘So you don’t want to have to share her with dancing? Or you don’t think you could deal with it?’

‘I don’t _know_ if I can. Not unless I try. But it seems so ruthless to go into a relationship knowing that there’s an enormous fucking elephant in the room, and you might learn to live with it but it also might go crazy and stomp really hard on her heart.’ Clarke looked reproachfully at Octavia as the dancer let out a snort of laughter. ‘I’m serious, O. I can’t just ignore it.’

‘I know, I know. Sorry.’ Octavia applied a generous layer of glue to the shoe’s inside toe and set it down carefully. ‘I mean, look at it this way. If you date her and break up with her, she’ll be sad and hurt and lonely. But if you don’t date her she’ll be lonely anyway.’

‘She’ll find someone else.’

‘And why the hell will they be better at coping with her than you would be?’ The dancer bit her lip. ‘Clarke, listen. Lexa is kind of...hard-wired to be alone. She’s got this ridiculous job which takes up your whole life, and not just that, she’s _brilliant_ at it. She’s not normal. She never had to wonder if she was going to get into a company, or if she was ever going to get a featured role, or if she was going to get promoted, so even the other dancers can’t relate to her. It’s just totally outside any of our experiences.’

‘But you like her.’

‘Most people like her, if she lets them, but none of us _get_ her. Everyone’s just accepted that she’s different. That’s the point. She _is_ different. And that’s lonely.’ Octavia shrugged. ‘Look, I don’t want to make her sound like this sad damsel in distress. She’s super talented and loves what she does and physically she’s basically the embodiment of sex, so don’t feel too sorry for her. But she can’t be a serial dater because of her job, and she can’t be everyone’s best friend because that’s just not what she’s like. So meeting you, liking you...that’s a big deal for her.’

‘But what if I’m just not right for her?’ The wine was already long gone, but the designer twirled the glass restlessly between her fingers. ‘Her ex wasn’t. If she’s not normal, doesn’t she need someone who’s...I don’t know. Similarly unusual?’

Octavia gazed at her sympathetically for a moment, then hoisted herself up onto the couch with a groan and a crack of joints. ‘Clarke, here’s the thing. You’ve got to stop thinking that there’s someone out there who has this magic insight into Lexa’s consciousness and totally gets her and will be totally selfless and totally okay with the fact that part of her belongs to her art form. That person doesn’t exist. And since that person doesn’t exist, I’d say you’re as good a compromise as she’s ever going to get.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘No one ever does. But the relationships that scare you are the ones worth trying.’

It felt like the final word. There was quiet for a long moment, then Octavia got up wordlessly to fetch the wine bottle, and Clarke held out her glass obediently, and they sat waging the war together. The designer battled silently through the worry, skirmished with the self-doubt, and eventually she nodded slowly. ‘You’re right.’

‘Really?’ Octavia blinked. ‘I mean, I know I am, but I wasn’t expecting you to admit it.’

‘No, you are. I shouldn’t have shut her down like that.’ It was a relief to admit it, a release from the cycle of thinking and rethinking that she’d been trapped in for the past twenty-four hours. ‘Thank you, O. Again.’

‘Any time.’ Octavia slipped off the couch and picked up the half-sewn shoe. ‘Someone has to save you from yourself. The next time you try to turn down a supernaturally-gorgeous ballerina, you give me a call.’

‘If it happens again, I’ll _know_ this is all a dream.’ Clarke pouted and poked the dancer with her foot. ‘Anyway, you’re so worried about convincing me that I’m good enough for Lexa. How come you aren’t worrying about whether Lexa is good enough for me?’

‘Two reasons.’ Octavia sat back complacently. ‘One, Lexa is my woman-crush and I’m still in the stages of thinking she can do no wrong. Particularly because this morning she caught the rush-hour subway to show me how to sew my shoes properly. And two, I didn’t need to convince you that you’re desperate to date her, because you’re already completely smitten.’

‘Words to that effect at no point crossed my lips.’

‘No, but I know your faces. You weren’t wearing your _I turned someone down and I feel mean about it_ face. You were wearing your _I turned someone down and I know I fucked up_ face. Totally different.’

‘Am I that easy to read?’

‘Transparent,’ said Octavia fondly. ‘But only when you’re me.’

 

***

 

The Palace Theater on the unofficial opening night of a new musical would usually have been the last place Lexa wanted to be after eight hours of rehearsals. The only reason she had forced herself to go anywhere near was that they never changed the code for the stage door and she happened to know that the top circle of seats was never opened for previews. She could sit quietly by herself and snort at the jazz hands and leave without disturbing anybody if and when she got bored. It would be peaceful, it would be a distraction from her own choreography and her own looming opening night; it would be just what she needed.

In fact it wasn’t quite the only reason. But since the other reason was that she was hoping to accidentally run into Anya, which was likely to be extremely painful and unpleasant and would also mean admitting that Lincoln and Indra were right, she was trying to ignore it for as long as possible.

As expected, the top tier was empty, and accessing it was no challenge for someone with Lexa’s pedigree in sneaking around theaters. The ballerina picked a seat just off-centre, a couple of rows back, and unwound her scarf as she curled up. She spent so much time on the other side of the curtain that it was strange - in a good way - to be in the auditorium among the hum of chatter, the rustle of playbills, the odd cadenza from the orchestra as they warmed up. In their first term at the school she and Lincoln had snuck into the top row of the ballet theater every night for the best part of two weeks, completely absorbed in performance after performance of _The Nutcracker_ , only getting found out when she fell asleep on the massage table and was forced to admit that she’d been learning the Sugarplum Fairy solo afterwards instead of going to bed. The memory made her smile and she relaxed despite herself, finding the kind of peace that only came with familiarity.

The house lights had just gone down when there was a shuffle from the tiny staircase to her left, and Lexa shrank back silently. There could be no mistaking the sharp features of the newcomer’s profile, silhouetted against the brightness of the stage as she sat down in the front row. The ballerina had never thought to wonder what choreographers got up to while their work was being danced, but where Anya was concerned the answer was apparently that she skulked up in the gods and attempted to get as far away as possible from other human beings. It figured.

Lexa sat frozen while the orchestra played the overture, wondering if Anya could see her in the gloom and debating whether to move further away, but after a few minutes she realized she was safe. The choreographer was focused on the performance every bit as hard as twelve-year-old Lexa had been on the Sugarplum Fairy. She was living it second by second, step by step, her hands flickering as she sketched each movement in the air. Even when the lights went up for the interval she sat motionless, elbows braced on her knees and hands clasped beneath her chin, staring out at the curtained stage. Lexa sat back with a tug in the pit of her stomach that felt almost like guilt. She’d never doubted that Anya cared about her work, but it was something new to see her so unguarded, safe in the dark where she thought no one was watching her.

The choreographer didn’t stick around for the applause, and Lexa gave her ten seconds head start before following her down the stairs. She almost lost her on the ground floor, held up by the first few members of the audience as they hurried out to catch trains, and had to call down the corridor to stop her getting away. ‘Anya.’

Anya stopped in her tracks and swung round, face transparently astonished, exasperated and finally relieved before she managed to assume her usual faintly sardonic expression. ‘Lex.’

Lexa had planned a whole speech during the duller, danceless bits of the show. She’d arranged her thoughts, worked out what she needed to say and what would make things worse, rehearsed the whole conversation the way she rehearsed her ballets. Now that Anya was in front of her, head held slightly too high and gaze slightly too direct, she forgot all of it.

‘You came,’ Anya said eventually, when the silence stretched too long.

‘Right.’ The ballerina swallowed, unused to being so at a loss and unable for once to hide it. ‘Can we talk?’

Anya’s shoulders sagged a quarter of an inch, a flicker of relief so tiny that Lexa would never have noticed it if she hadn’t been so worked up. ‘Yeah. Of course, just - there’s press to talk to, and I should probably try to think of something nice to say to the cast. Go to Marty’s, I won’t be long.’ Lexa nodded, but Anya didn’t look away. ‘Lex, don’t disappear. Promise you’ll wait. Please.’

‘Promise.’

Anya nodded stiffly, one of those mannerisms they’d both picked up from Indra, and headed slowly towards the side-door that led backstage. Lexa made a move for the exit but couldn’t forget the choreographer’s unblinking gaze at the stage, or the desperate clasp of her fingers, and she turned back reluctantly. ‘Hey. It was good.’

‘You think?’

‘Not your best work.’ Lexa met Anya's eyes, just briefly, as she finished buttoning her coat. ‘But I plan on that happening on Saturday.’

 

***

 

Tuesday was a quiet night at Marty’s, half-full of whispering couples and the odd group of coworkers in smart shoes and rolled-up shirtsleeves, piped music barely audible above the hammering of rain on plate glass. It was too far downtown to be one of the ballet dancers’ regular haunts, but they came occasionally when they needed a change of scene, and the bartender knew Lexa’s order. The brunette ballerina with the hair and the eyes and the smirk was not easily forgotten even when the smirk was noticeable by its absence.

Anya arrived twenty minutes later. Her attempt at dignity was spoiled somewhat by the fact that she was soaking wet, which proved that she had been flustered enough to forget her umbrella at the theater, and anxious enough to carry straight on to the bar instead of making the short walk back to fetch it. She slipped into the seat beside the ballerina and Lexa wordlessly slid her the second whiskey she’d ordered, and the two of them sat in silence, listening to the rain and the chatter and the rhythmic clink of the bartender stacking glasses. Lexa opened her mouth once or twice to speak but the choreographer just sat there drinking, content for her to open negotiations.

‘I’m still mad at you.’

Anya didn’t look at her. ‘I know.’

‘You fucked up.’

‘I know.’

Lexa blew out a breath. ‘Want to tell me why?’

‘No.’ Lexa’s hands tightened dangerously around her glass, but Anya wasn’t finished. ‘You don’t have to listen to me justify myself. You were right. It’s none of my business.’

‘Didn’t seem to bother you at the time.’

‘I was scared.’

Lexa had never, not once in her life, heard Anya admit to being scared. Not when the older girl was facing the agonizing wait to see if she'd be picked for the company, not when she performed with them for the first time, not even when she broke her leg and lost it all. Anya was the bravest, most _sure_ person she knew. It was almost a compliment to be the one thing that Anya Hunter would admit being scared of.  

Anya stared into her glass as she explained, voice carefully neutral. ‘When you and Costia broke up, you pushed us away. You wouldn’t let me help you. That’s _hard_ , Lex. Ever since you arrived at the school I felt like you were my kid, my responsibility, and it hurt to see you so sad and not be allowed to look after you.’

‘I know.’

‘No, Lexa, I don’t think you do.’ The choreographer put the glass on the bar with a harsh click and looked her straight in the eye, for the first time since sitting down. ‘When you came to the school you were used to relying on yourself. You wouldn’t admit you needed help, you thought you didn’t need anyone to pick you up, and you haven’t completely caught up with the fact that you don't need to be that way any more. You still don’t realize that we don’t help you because you need us to. We help you because we _want_ to.’ Anya sighed, waved a hand pointlessly, lowered it again. ‘In the worst times you still won’t trust anyone but yourself, and that hurts the rest of us. Because we want to be there. We want to take care of you.’

‘I don’t mean to.’ Which was true.

‘I know you don’t, but you can’t help it. And it’s worse when you do such a terrible job.’ The choreographer saw Lexa's jaw clench and went on remorselessly. ‘Don’t look like that. You know I’m right. When you get injured the _first rule of rehabilitation,_ which you learned when you were _twelve,_ is that you sit quietly and wait for the physio before you move it, but when you got hurt you just kept trying to get up and finish the fucking rehearsal. Lincoln had to hold you down and cut your ribbons. Then you ran away from hospital and we had no idea where you were or what stupid shit you were doing to yourself, and it turned out you’d been sitting on a freezing rooftop for hours with Mr Jack and Mr Daniels for company.’

‘And where did I learn that from?’

‘No,’ said Anya quietly. ‘That's not fair. I listened to the doctors. I took the crutches, the counselling, the physical therapy. I did everything I was supposed to do.’

‘So did I, after the initial meltdown.’

‘I lost my _career_.’

‘I know. And the first time I got into company class and you weren't there I thought I was going to break in half,’ snapped Lexa, with a force that surprised them both. ‘You don’t have a fucking monopoly on second-hand pain, Anya, but I didn't stop you starting another career just in case the same thing happened again. Because that would be crazy.’

It was sometimes surprising which moments made everything fall into place. Lexa’s stomach twisted at the memory of the blank, devastated feeling she’d had in class that day, knowing that Anya’s endless months of rehabbing and persevering and _hoping_ had all been for nothing, and she realized that she’d understood all along why the choreographer had gone to talk to Clarke. If Lexa had been given the chance to spare Anya from going through those months again, she would have taken it in a heartbeat.

Anya nodded slowly, _yeah, that’s fair_ , and after a long silence she gave a small, defeated shrug. ‘I’m sorry, Lex. I don’t know what else to say. I just wanted to stop it ending with Clarke the same way it ended with Costia.’

Part of Lexa hated the fact that she understood, because understanding wouldn’t give her a second chance, but she couldn’t deny that watching someone she loved get hurt - sitting helplessly through Anya’s ruthless determination to get better, and the rage when the older girl finally realized she’d never dance again - had been just as bad in its own way as getting hurt herself.

Her shoulders felt lighter, somehow, and she flexed them instinctively. ‘I understand why you did it. But you have to admit you did go way too fucking far.’

‘Not deliberately.’ Anya sighed and ran a hand through her hair. ‘It was never the plan to scare her off. I actually think you’d be good for each other.’

‘Funny way of showing it.’

‘That’s the protective instinct for you. Just beats everything else down.’

Lexa grinned unwillingly. ‘Protective instinct’ and ‘beating everything else down’ were pretty much the twin pillars of Anya's existence.

‘I just wanted her to go in with her eyes open. If I’d known she’d react like that...’ The choreographer tilted her head and glanced at Lexa. ‘What was it she said to you? That she couldn't date you in case something went wrong and you got hurt again?’

‘More or less.’

‘Well then. If someone's that worried about breaking your heart before you’ve even asked them out…’ Anya shrugged a shoulder and nudged Lexa’s elbow with hers. Tentative contact. White flag raised. ‘You could do worse than let them try.’

The ballerina shifted in her seat, tracing a fingertip around the rim of the glass. ‘I’m still mad at you.’

‘I know.’

‘You fucked up.’

‘I know.’

‘Don’t do it again.’

‘I won’t.’

Lexa opened her mouth to say something else but heard herself sigh instead, suddenly conscious of how tired she was after running on adrenaline all day and nerves and whiskey all evening. It was amazing how much energy it took to be angry, and she realized now that she’d been focusing on the anger to protect herself from the rejection. Anger was easy; sadness, she knew from experience, was too empty and too elusive to confront.

She didn’t say any of it to Anya, didn’t forgive her out loud, but she leaned close enough that their shoulders were touching and clinked their glasses together before she drained hers. And that, for them, was enough.

They sat in silence, listening to the rain, until the ballerina’s phone buzzed.

 **Lincoln Eastman (22:35):** I know where Clarke is right now

Lexa swallowed nervously, fingers tapping on the back of the case, utterly, irrationally convinced that this message was the most important thing in the world and equally utterly unable to decide how to answer it.

 **Lexa Woods (22:36):** She doesn’t want to see me.

It was a long, agonizing wait for the reply.

 **Lincoln Eastman (22:40):** I think she does.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'It's December the 24th and I am longing to be up north'...pretty sure the 49th parallel is actually south of where I am but whatever. Missing Canada but my first real UK Christmas has at least given me a couple of hours to write! Today I've made 3 Christmas puddings and about a thousand gingerbread men so this chapter may be a bit of a mess, but thank you thank you once again for reading, it means the world when people enjoy it :) 
> 
> If you're in need of some extra Christmas spirit, I also wrote a christmassy one-shot which is basically an extended flashback into Lexa's early years at the company, check it out at http://archiveofourown.org/works/8817661
> 
> Happy holidays all, and a safe and peaceful new year :)

Clarke had been happily sunk into the couch with another refill of wine, Octavia beside her alternating between fiddling with her phone and sewing the last of the endless ribbons onto her tenth pointe shoe, when the dancer suddenly locked the phone and rolled the shoe up abruptly. ‘Right. Bedtime. Sorry to throw you out, Griff, but. You know. Gala week.’

‘I haven’t finished my -’

‘No exceptions. I have a very strict sleep schedule before opening nights.’

‘In which you go to bed at -’ the designer blinked at her watch ‘- 11.07? Precisely?’

‘Yes.’

Clarke narrowed her eyes. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘I’m fine, honestly. I just realized how late it is.’ Octavia smiled encouragingly and made a ‘drink-up’ gesture as she tossed various sharp objects back into her shoe-bag. Clarke hastily obeyed. ‘Tomorrow’s so full-on, we both need our beauty sleep. You are coming in for the dress runs, right? My rehearsal’s just before yours.’

‘Wouldn’t miss it.’

Clarke couldn’t work out how she was meant to feel about the dress rehearsal. She knew she should be looking forward to it, and she was, but it was only half the professional excitement of seeing her clothes on stage for the first time. The rest was the strange downwards tug in her stomach whenever she realized that, despite everything that she’d said, she’d still been counting down the hours until she’d see Lexa again.

Octavia held out Clarke’s coat and bag while she hastily squashed her feet into her shoes, and before she knew it the designer found herself being hustled out the door. ‘Take the stairs, the elevator’s broken.’

‘I came up here in the elevator.’

‘Right. Well, not _broken_ broken. Temperamental. You were lucky. Sometimes it just. Um. Stops.’ Octavia gestured briskly at the stairwell. ‘Stairs. Be safe, text me when you get home. Night!’

Clarke stared at the door as it closed behind her. She had a distinct feeling that she’d just been kicked out. Octavia had always been religious about getting enough sleep before shows, but this was a new level of crazy. The pressure was really getting to her.

‘Clarke.’

The designer spun round fast enough to almost lose her balance. Lexa was standing a few steps below her, hugging her sides, coat spotted with rain and stray curls escaping from her bun. She was half in the shadows, like an apparition or a dream, and for a moment Clarke wondered if she was the one going crazy.

She gestured mechanically up the stairs. ‘Were you looking for Octavia…?’

‘I was looking for you.’ The ballerina sounded tired, but her gaze was level. ‘Lincoln said you were here.’

‘ _Lincoln_ did - oh, right. Octavia.’ That made more sense. Paralyzed by nerves, no. Scheming and manipulative and willing to do anything to get Clarke laid, yes.

‘I can go if you don't -’

‘If I’d known you were -’

‘After you.’

‘No, I interrupted.’

Lexa nodded and started to take a step forward, hovering on the balls of her feet before changing her mind. ‘I heard what you said yesterday, and I think I understand where you were coming from. And for the record, of course I respect any decision you make about...me. This. And this isn’t an attempt to guilt-trip you, and you need to stop me right away if you feel like I'm pressuring you, or bothering you, or pushing in where I’m not wanted. And now I’ve said so many words that I’m starting to realize why my chosen art form is silent.’ She held Clarke’s gaze for a moment while she tried to organize her thoughts. Clarke realized she’d barely been breathing. ‘But I was hoping you’d give me a chance to explain.’

‘Explain what?’

‘I don’t really know,’ sighed Lexa, rubbing stray rain off the back of her neck. ‘I just feel like I should try. If you still feel the same way afterwards, I get it, I really do, but I want you to decide based on _me_. Not what someone else says about me.’

‘That seems fair.’ Clarke twisted the handle of her bag between her hands, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. ‘Put like that, I sound like a total jerk.’

‘Very much the opposite of what I was going for.’

‘It’s just...Anya thinks the world of you. I guess I thought that anything she said would be in your best interests.’

‘Anya knows me better than I know myself. But she’s also kind of crazy.’

‘I can imagine.’

Clarke couldn’t remember being _aware_ of anyone the way she was of Lexa. In the charged, uncertain silence she suddenly saw the ballerina in perfect clarity, from the stray wisps of hair to the press and flex of her fingers as she folded her arms, each detail outlined as sharply as in the lightning flash before thunder. She drank in the curve of the cheekbone and the line of the jaw, imagined the hollow in the dancer’s wrist and the heartbeat she could have felt if she’d reached out. She could still hardly believe that Lexa was actually there, but every nerve was crackling with certainty.

It felt like hours before Lexa gestured down the stairs, defeated. ‘The cab driver got out for a smoke when he dropped me off. If you hurry he might be able to give you a ride home.’

‘No, wait. That is, yes. But you should come too.’ Clarke was really only vaguely aware of herself speaking. ‘Just for a drink. Tea. And you can explain.’

 

***

 

Clarke’s apartment felt suddenly unfamiliar when she stepped into it with Lexa at her heels. She was newly conscious of the jars of paint-water making rings on the coffee table and the half-finished study on the easel, the mugs bestowed across the kitchen island, the procession of fabric swatches draped over the back of the couch like a particularly unkempt rainbow. And her cheeks burned as they passed the section of wall by the fridge where she’d stuck the photos of Lexa, back when she was first shaping her ideas and the ballerina was nothing more than a vague, long-limbed ideal.

‘Make yourself at home,’ she called over her shoulder, trying to sound offhand. ‘Just, er. Move anything that’s in your way.’

Her determination to offer up drinkable tea kept her mostly focused on the job, but she still found her eye straying towards the dancer unwinding her enormous scarf, rolling out her neck, placing her boots carefully by the door.

‘I like your place,’ Lexa offered, wandering past the wall of windows. There wasn’t much of a view to speak of tonight, the rain turning the lights of the skyline into a random scattering of silver and gold. ‘It’s very...I’m not sure how to put it. It’s very you.’

‘Dare I ask?’

‘Beautiful, cultured and mysterious?’

‘Nice try.’

The ballerina grinned and came over to lean on the kitchen island. ‘I like that there are ideas everywhere. The paintings, the things you’ve stuck on the walls. I’ve never met an artist before, so it’s interesting. It’s nice to see the process.’

Clarke handed over a tea, shivering as the warmth spread from her fingers, mirroring Lexa’s stance on the other side of the counter. ‘I felt the same watching you rehearse. It’s not like I understand the technicalities, but I could tell that you were doing something. Creating.’

‘Or trying, at this stage. The last week is always the toughest.’

‘It’s the same before fashion week.’

‘It’s barely _creating_ at all. It’s just technical rehearsals and journalists getting in the way.’

‘Troubleshooting.’

‘Coffee.’

‘Exactly.’ Clarke grinned, but it turned into a sigh in the comfortable silence. ‘We should have started like this. Met at a party. Picked each other up at a bar. Talked about work. Just like that, just us. Uncomplicated.’

Lexa smiled wryly. ‘I’m not sure I’m built for uncomplicated. My job is to regularly break my heart live on stage. And I once broke a guy’s fingers after he put his hands somewhere he shouldn’t. There’d be something wrong if it wasn’t slightly...gladiatorial.’

‘I know.’

‘Maybe. But…’ The ballerina put down her mug and laid her hands on the table, palms up. ‘Try to forget what Anya said for a second. I know what she was trying to do, and I get it, but she doesn’t speak for me.’

‘I shouldn’t have let her.’

‘She can be very compelling when she likes.’ Lexa sighed and stared down at her hands for a moment before dragging her eyes back up to meet Clarke’s. ‘I understand how hard I am to live with, Clarke. Even as a friend. This has been normal for me since I was twelve, but I promise you I _get_ how hard it is for outsiders to find their way into the schedule. I try. I do my best. I don’t want you to think that I’m...obsessed, or I don’t care.’

‘That’s not…’ Clarke swallowed. ‘That was never the issue, Lexa. It never even crossed my mind.’

Lexa looked like she was trying very hard to talk herself out of continuing. ‘That’s good, I guess. Because I have to start somewhere. And I’d much rather chance getting hurt along the way than never love anyone ever again.’

‘It doesn’t scare you?’

‘It scares me the same way I’m scared of loss, or failure, or drowning. But I’m not going to live my life expecting that that will ever change.’

There was a long silence. Clarke tried to remember why she’d snapped, shied away, refused to take that risk. But all she could see was the girl in front of her fiddling with the hem of her sleeves, face calm but eyes anxious, and she realized how much she wanted to forget.

The ballerina shuffled her feet and stared at the counter. ‘Penny for them?’

‘I…’ Clarke took a gulp of tea while she tried to chart a course. ‘I overreacted, I think. Somewhat. I was having a bad day anyway, Anya took me by surprise, but...Look, I meant it when I said I didn’t want you to get hurt.’

‘I know.’

‘And I couldn’t promise not to hurt you. Not without seeing what it’s really like to date you.’

‘Do you want to try?’

‘Do you?’

Lexa shrugged a shoulder. ‘Most of my friends I’ve known for five, ten years. I don’t meet a lot of new people. And I never respond to them the way I responded to you.’ She spread her hands, eloquent and sincere and _tired_. ‘I can’t ignore that.’

Clarke looked into those heartbreaking, honest eyes and made a half-hearted grab for what remained of her backbone. ‘But we work together.’

‘Only for...four more days.’

There were other reasons not to get involved. There had to be. There had to be smarter decisions out there than a workaholic, ridiculously talented, magnetically charismatic ballerina, with availability issues and hair that looked like it would have just the right degree of tangle to really get your hands into…

Clarke couldn’t think of a single one.

She gazed at Lexa across a kitchen island which seemed to have shrunk. ‘After the gala?’

‘After the gala.’

Somehow, the violence of the weather made it easier to forget that the outside world existed. They might have been completely alone in the city, cocooned in their circle of light, shielded by the hum of the rain on the windows, their problems and promises elevated to elemental importance. Clarke found herself completely contented with the warmth and peace and silence, completely at home, as though Lexa appearing on Octavia’s stairs had been some trick of destiny and this moment was an inevitable waypoint in time.

It could have been one minute or five or ten before Lexa shifted in place and rolled out the stiffness in her neck and shoulders. ‘Is that my costume?’

The designer had forgotten about the dress on the mannequin, pushed into the corner and swallowed up by the shadows. ‘I brought it back to do the alterations. Wanted to do it myself.’ She went to spin the mannequin so Lexa could see. ‘It should fit better now. I took it in at the waist here and here, and I backed it with velvet here so it’ll be less scratchy at the shoulders. The rehearsal will help clear up anything else, but...I’m happy with it.’

‘You should be.’ Lexa finished her tea with a gulp. ‘I can try it on, if you like? Since I’m here. If that would save time tomorrow.’

‘Oh. That is, sure. That would be useful.’ Clarke coughed and waved a hand towards the bedroom in what she hoped was a casual manner. ‘Just wheel it through there to change. I’ll be, er. Out here. Washing up. Shout if you need a hand.’

‘Yes ma’am.’ Clarke caught a captivating hint of a southern drawl and turned the cold water on firmly.

She knew what to expect this time, but there was still a flash of exhilaration when she heard steps behind her and turned to see Lexa in her design. ‘How does it feel? Can you move okay?’

The ballerina tried a couple of steps, barefoot, all graceful arms and arching back. ‘Easily. The fit’s perfect.’

‘Almost like it was made for you?’

‘Very funny.’ Lexa picked experimentally at the waist, tugging the skirts first one way and then the other. ‘Will this be sewn to the leotard?’

‘It’s tacked down.’

‘It needs to be fixed pretty securely, or it’ll get all twisted when Lincoln partners me.’ The dancer glanced down at Clarke, eyes dark in the half-light, and turned away from her. ‘Here, I’ll show you. Put your hands round my waist. Not too firmly, just...like that.’

Clarke swallowed hard, mutely letting Lexa take her hands and guide them to rest just above slim hips. She wasn’t sure if she felt or imagined the play of fine muscles beneath her palms, but whichever it was it was real and happening and _fuck_.

‘Watch.’

The ballerina lifted up on her toes and turned in an agonizingly slow pirouette, the fabric whispering and catching on Clarke’s fingers, tangling the pair of them together in the breathless eternity it took to turn a half-circle. And then Lexa was facing her, heartstoppingly close, and Clarke’s hands tightened instinctively.

The world flew by, and spun slower.

In hindsight, and Clarke thought about it _a lot_ afterwards, Lexa kissed exactly like you’d expect - it was purposeful, careful, unhurried, but there was a sighing quality to it, a willingness to be caught if she could only let herself fall. In the moment, she could barely think at all. Part of her was occupied with the simple, sensory, sensual pleasure of hard muscle beneath her hands and soft, soft lips against hers, and part of her with the knowledge that they belonged to this beautiful girl who could speak with her body and keep thousands of people hanging spellbound on her every move. It was caged power and willing surrender, and Clarke was lost.

Awareness returned when Lexa drew a thumb across her cheekbone, featherlight, and drew back reluctantly. ‘I should go.’

‘Don’t.’ The word escaped the designer before she realized her mouth was open, and she focused on disentangling her hands to hide her blush. ‘I mean, you don’t have to. I don’t want...this isn’t a mistake, Lexa. Fuck knows what it is, but I don’t want to run away from it again.’

‘Clarke, I couldn’t run if I wanted to.’ The ballerina smoothed out her skirts carefully and gave Clarke a smile that started small and tucked-in and diffident, but grew til it lit her up from the inside. ‘It’s just, it’s gone midnight and it’s gala week and Indra promised swift and terrible vengeance to anyone she saw yawning. I should really get my eight hours.’

‘I have a bed.’ The smile turned into a smirk. ‘Also a couch. Which I would sleep on.’

‘I can’t. Any other week, but…’

‘It’s okay.’

‘It gets easier once season starts, I promise. I’m not on every night.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Clarke reassured, and meant it. She traced a fingertip across Lexa’s waist and allowed herself a moment of satisfaction at the shiver it drew from the ballerina. ‘I’ll fix this for the rehearsal.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Anytime.’ Another breath, another moment fumbling for the clarity and composure that they’d forfeited the second they touched, and they stepped apart.

‘I’ll let you change.’

‘Thanks for the tea.’

‘Thanks for the...explanation.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Today.’

‘Right.’

‘Right,’ repeated the designer as she finally waved Lexa off, leaning on the closed door and shaking her head in amazement, pressing her fingers against her eyes to lock in the memories. ‘Fuck.’

 

***

 

Clarke was only expected at the theater for her particular dress rehearsal, but she rearranged her schedule so she could catch a glimpse of Octavia’s as well. Ignoring the confusion and near-panic of her assistant, who apparently thought that the diary was _literally_ set in stone, she grabbed her macbook and sketchpad in one hand and the garment-bag in the other and spent the cab ride trying and failing to keep her mind on strictly professional matters.

She’d been to theaters before, but never one so grand. Empty of audience, it was impossible not to gasp at the sheer vibrancy of the red velvet seats and the shimmer of the gilded balconies, or to marvel at the carving on the ceiling and on the brackets that held the hundreds of tiny gold lamps. For someone like Clarke, endlessly responsive to beautiful things, it was as close to magic as she could imagine.

Melissa the extremely hot intern, instagramming energetically from the front row of the stalls, supplied the wi-fi password. Clarke wandered the rows for a while before settling down towards the back with the garment-bag draped carefully over the chair next to her, where she could work through the dull predictability of her inbox and still keep most of her attention on the rehearsal in front of her - but she realized, once she’d sat down, that it would have been hard to miss Octavia from anywhere in the theater. The dancer was glowing, filling the stage with fizzing pirouettes and the kind of energy that made Clarke sweat just watching. She held every balance to the very edge of falling, smiled at the other dancers, made the whole thing look as easy as if she was a kid jumping around the sidewalk with her friends.

Clarke basked in reflected pride and watched idly as Indra stopped and started the performance, demonstrated technical points, debated with the stage manager and called instructions up to the lighting desk. There was an exhausting array of things to be fixed. The designer checked her watch as the ballet-master began a muffled argument with the conductor and settled in comfortably for the fifteen minutes before she was needed.

‘You’re early.’ It was Anya, approaching with unnervingly silent steps and sitting down beside her.

‘So are you.’

Anya shrugged and rested her long legs on the back of the seat in front of her. ‘I usually try to catch other people’s rehearsals. Choreographers have to do a lot of learning just by watching. There’s only so many hours people will actually let you practise on their dancers.’

‘I guess.’

Indra had evidently won the argument and the orchestra started up again. Clarke tapped away at her emails. Anya scratched a couple of notes in her book before clearing her throat and putting it away. ‘Clarke?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Believe it or not I’d like us to be friends after we stop being colleagues, so I’d better warn you not to get used to this, but...I want to apologize. About Monday.’

‘Anya.’

‘It has since been pointed out to me that I can be somewhat full-on.’

‘That’s not necessary.’

‘I put you in an impossible position.’

‘You were looking out for your friend.’

‘I went in too hard and I am very sorry.’

‘And I think you need to stop gritting your teeth before you break your jaw.’

Anya exhaled and counted to five under her breath. ‘Yes. Well. Apologizing doesn’t come naturally to me. But I _am_ sorry, Clarke, and scaring you off was the last thing I wanted to do.’

‘Next time you could experiment with smiling. Or a friendly tone of voice.’

‘Ha ha. That would require extensive practice. The thing is…’ Anya twisted in her seat to face Clarke. ‘Contrary to popular belief, I actually don’t spend my life beating off Lexa’s suitors with a stick like she’s Rapunzel and I’m the witch. Which would obviously be nonsense since I’m both wildly more attractive and have much better hair.’

‘Obviously.’

‘Right. But you’re different.’

‘So you _do_ want to beat me off with a stick or -’

‘You’re not taking this seriously.’

Clarke closed her laptop and shrugged. ‘Anya, it’s fine. I’ve talked to Lexa and we’re good. I appreciate the apology but it’s sorted.’

‘Good for you.’ The choreographer tried to sound offhand but there was a definite note of relief in her voice. ‘I just wanted you to understand how a relationship with Lexa would work. Lexa’s fine with one-night stands, casual things, but the domestic stuff is the challenge. Wanting to eat dinner with someone, moving in together, date nights. That sort of thing.’

‘We are very, very far from doing those things.’

‘I know. But I also know Lexa, and I’m telling you, you’re someone she wants to eat dinner with.’ Anya shrugged. ‘If I’d thought you were just a random crush I wouldn’t have bothered. But Lexa _likes_ you. I wanted to make sure you felt the same before she got in too deep. But it all comes down to the fact that I don’t find you unbearable and I think you two should give it a go.’

‘Thank you, I think.’

‘You’re welcome.’ The choreographer nudged her as Indra beckoned from the stage. ‘We’re up. Lex and Lincoln have just gone to change, so they’ll meet us on stage. I want to have a word with the conductor.’

The theater felt even bigger from the stage. The spot where she’d been sitting in the stalls seemed impossibly far away, and the three tiers above her disappeared into the shadows as though they went on for ever. It was daunting when it was empty; the thought of all those seats being filled with people made a fashion show seem like a small-town beauty pageant.

‘You can’t see anything when you’re on stage,’ came Lexa’s voice from behind her. ‘Not with the house lights down and the stage lights in your face. Sometimes I just forget they’re there.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Cross my heart.’ The ballerina did an informal twirl, skirts floating after her. ‘Well?’

‘You’re sure the alterations are enough? I have my kit if we need to change anything.’

‘Clarke. It’s fine.’

‘Is it normal to be nervous about a rehearsal?’

‘Only the first one. Next time we’ll mock you relentlessly.’ Anya, back from the orchestra pit. ‘Ready, Lexa?’

‘Ready.’

‘Okay. Linc’s in position. Let’s do a full run and then look at anything that needs work.’

Clarke followed Anya down into the first row of seats as the lights dimmed. There was an unbearable moment of silent darkness before the spotlight finally came on Lexa, stage-right, and both designer and choreographer let out the breaths they’d been holding. It was finally real.

And it was _good_. The effect of the costume - skirts light enough to trace Lexa’s movement like breathing, dark enough that it looked like she was part of the shadow - was exactly as Clarke had imagined it. She lived for these moments, when those snatched flashes of inspiration gained texture and weight and color, became something people would see and respond to and talk about. It was why she did it. It was art come to life.

‘She looks good,’ whispered Anya, pencil hanging limp in her hand, notebook open but empty.

‘She does.’

There were still things to pick up on, once they’d got over the first quiet moment of awe. There were lighting changes to experiment with, minor musical hiccups, an extremely serious and involved discussion as to whether Lexa’s pointe shoes should be satin or matte finish. But there was an unspoken, hopeful sense of a job well done, and when they got together at the end - Lexa and Anya being scrupulously polite to each other, Lincoln observing Clarke out of the corner of his eye as he listened to Anya’s corrections - it was difficult not to tempt fate.

‘...Lexa, that bit where you do the semicircle round center stage. Really take your time with the piqué turns in the first half before you speed up into the chainés. The build is important. Work with the crescendo. And that’s all.’ Anya sounded genuinely amazed. ‘Other than that, it’s good. Really good. Indra?’

Clarke turned guiltily to see Indra, evidently another silent mover, standing in the front row of the stalls with arms folded. ‘I agree, Anya. I’m pleasantly surprised. I was expecting to have to bang heads together.’

The choreographer raised her eyebrows. ‘You do know you’ve already paid me, right?’

‘I do. I was just here to find out how loudly I should cry myself to sleep tonight.’

‘We broke her,’ whispered Lexa in Clarke’s ear. ‘The last time she made a joke was in 2009, and the _Times_ arts critic had just called her a visionary.’

‘Lexa, Lincoln, they’ll be waiting for you in the costume shop. Anya, Titus needs a word with you about the programme notes. Clarke, if you head to the office in ten minutes I'll run you through the arrangements for Saturday.’

Lexa mouthed ‘wait’ as she headed backstage, and Clarke went back to her seat in the stalls as the next group of dancers trouped out. She had barely even managed to clear the emails which had come in during the rehearsal when Octavia collapsed beside her, exhausted but beaming, and closed her eyes dramatically. ‘Holy crap, I’m done. I am as one with the chair. The chair is me. I am the chair.’

‘You’re sweating all over the velvet.’

‘Bite me, Griff.’ The dancer sneered at Clarke’s smirk and dug in her bag for her water bottle. ‘How was your rehearsal? Everyone happy?’

‘Delighted. It was kind of weird. Indra made a joke.’

‘Shut up.’

‘She did.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Yeah.’ Clarke typed away nonchalantly for a minute while Octavia slowly merged with the seat. ‘I don’t suppose you had anything to do with the fact that I bumped into Lexa on the stairs right after I left your apartment last night?’

‘No.’ Octavia coughed and took a long drink of water. ‘I mean, you bumped into Lexa? That’s amazing. An amazing coincidence with which I was uninvolved.’

‘Mmm. Unbelievable, really. As in I literally do not believe it.’

‘Colleagues bump into each other all the time.’

‘On a particular stairwell, in a particular apartment building, at eleven at night?’

‘Oh, whatever.’ Octavia threw up her hands dramatically. ‘I was texting Lincoln while you were there, and I mentioned you were with me and that you wouldn’t be...opposed to fixing things with Lexa. And he told Lexa she should come over to mine. And Lexa happened to tell Lincoln she’d arrived safely. And Lincoln happened to mention it to me. But really I think you’ll find it was fate.’

‘Fate.’

‘Fate,’ repeated Octavia solemnly. ‘Dancers are superstitious. I was merely an instrument in the hands of the universe.’

‘You’re lucky you’re cute.’

‘I know. But not as cute as Lexa.’

‘You should stop talking now.’

‘That face on that body with those legs? And she can even speak in whole sentences. It should be illegal.’

‘I’m warning you.’

‘She holds the company record for the _Times_ crossword. I’m just saying, Clarke. You got game.’

‘Five, four, three -’

‘If I wasn’t so tragically straight there are a number of things I’d like to do to -’

‘Hello, Clarke. Octavia.’

Octavia coughed and straightened up with a flail of limbs. ‘Lexa. Hi. We were just talking about you. Your rehearsal. Yes.’

Lexa had changed at double-quick speed and there were traces of stage make-up clinging to her face. ‘Was Clarke telling you all the terrible things she wouldn’t say in front of me?’

‘This has been fun, but I’m going to go now.’

‘I think that would be a good idea,’ said Clarke firmly, standing up and ushering Octavia towards the aisle.

‘Make sure you text me la -’

‘Sorry about her.’ Lexa just smiled. Clarke tried and failed to remember what she usually did with her hands while she was speaking to people. ‘Um. The costume’s fine? Nothing we need to alter before opening night?’

‘I told you. It’s perfect.’ The ballerina bit her lip. ‘So. This is it. Until Saturday.’

‘Until Saturday.’

‘I’m looking forward to it. Even more than I thought I would. Everything’s just been...well. Being able to dance again. This ballet. You.’

‘You’ll be wonderful.’

Lexa nodded diffidently, fingers drumming on the strap of her shoe-bag. ‘After the gala?’

‘After the gala.’

A crashing chord from the orchestra broke in on them. Clarke remembered her appointment and wondered how Indra would respond to lateness. ‘I need to go.’

‘Remember the way?’

‘I'll find it.’ Clarke gathered up her things and hesitated, poised to leave. Any other day she might have balked, made shy by the depth of those eyes, but the exhilaration of the rehearsal made her bold instead. It was barely a kiss, more of a promise, but it counted.

Lexa stood stock still as she left, but she called after Clarke as the designer got to the door. ‘Out of interest, what _would_ Octavia do to me if she wasn’t tragically straight?’

‘I intend to take great care that I never find out.’


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to remember telling someone this chapter would be out before the end of January, so. Whoops. But it's here now :)
> 
> This was a really special chapter to write, because performing is what dancers live for. It's so difficult to describe what it feels like to be onstage, and why it's worth all the pain and the effort that makes up 90% of a ballet dancer's career, but I really hope you all enjoy this chapter and get even a small idea of what it's like. I don't miss this life very often, but I do miss performing. 
> 
> Thank you for reading one and all! As always, my tumblr is @southsouthwest and my askbox is open.

‘Breathe,’ said Anya firmly, the instant Lexa opened her mouth to answer the phone.

‘Why, good morning to you too. How nice of you to call. I’m fine, thanks for asking.’

‘You can act like it’s a normal day all you want, except that it’s six o’clock in the morning and you picked up on the first ring.’

‘And you can tell me to breathe all you want, except that it’s six o’clock in the morning and _you were the one who called me_.’

‘Which I only did because I knew you’d be awake.’

Lexa rolled over and smothered a groan in the comforter. ‘Anya, everything is fine. I’m breathing. My skin is clear. My alarm is set. As is my second alarm, and my third.’

‘And your ankle’s okay? Nothing hurts?’

‘I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck, so nothing new there. Seriously, Anya, go back to bed. You know I never freak out on show days.’

‘Exactly. You get so zen that sometimes I have to remind myself you’re still alive and sentient.’ The choreographer hesitated audibly. ‘Well. I just wanted to make sure. And since I’ll be at the theater all day anyway I thought I might take company class. Just barre, of course, but. Only if we’re okay.’

After ten years Lexa thought she knew all of Anya’s moods, but it was completely new for her to be this apologetic, this careful. It was a sign of how high she thought the stakes were. ‘Mistakes were made. I like to think we can get over it.’

‘Yeah. Good.’ Lexa heard a soft thump as Anya let herself fall back onto the bed. ‘Right. See you for class, then?’

‘Bring your shoes. You can use my locker if you need to. And if you want to make it to the gala in one piece you’d better not be late.’

‘I have _met_ Indra. And while I’ve got you, Mrs Cabrera wanted me to say good luck, and to tell you that she lit some candles at mass and mentioned us to St Jude.’

Mrs Cabrera was Anya’s landlady, and formerly Lexa’s, and had a firm belief in the power of the candle. ‘Isn’t St Jude…’

‘...the patron saint of lost causes, yes he is. I think,’ concluded Anya darkly as she hung up, ‘she thought she was being helpful.’

 

***

 

Anya’s greeting was short and to the point. ‘Breathe.’

‘What?!’ said Clarke, hopping around her bedroom, balancing her phone in one hand and trying to pull on her tights with the other.

‘Oh, it’s you. Ignore me, it’s a jerk reaction on premiere days. Everything okay?’

‘Yeah, fine.’ Tights conquered. Balance restored. ‘I was just calling to say that everything you need for tonight will be sent straight to the hotel.’

‘That's very nice if you, but I was copied into that email too.’

‘Oh, yeah. Of course. No, wait, don’t hang up.’ On second thoughts, Anya didn’t seem the sort of person to appreciate the softly-softly approach. ‘I’ve just remembered’ - _lie_ \- ‘I was also wondering what Lexa’s favorite flowers are.’

The choreographer snorted. ‘Lexa’s a complete slut for flowers, I really don’t think she’s fussy. Why?’

‘Isn’t that what you do to ballerinas when they perform? Give them flowers?’

‘Oh, Griffin, Lexa will get enough flowers tonight to open a florist.’ Anya sighed, crockery clattered, water splashed. Clarke waited. ‘Listen, don’t get her flowers. Not during show season, anyway. If you want to get her something to mark tonight, make it...I don’t know, a bottle of wine. Or get a poster framed.’

‘I thought she didn’t like being on posters.’

‘Well remembered.’ Anya’s tone was as dry as ever but there was a hint of a smile in her voice. ‘She’s got another twenty years of billboards ahead of her so she'd better get used to it. But you get the idea. Something different.’

‘Something different.’ Clarke stood stock still for a moment, then started across the room and began to shuffle through the various piles of paper on the low table by the door. ‘Thanks, Anya. See you later.’

 

***

 

‘Morning, Nina.’

‘Morning, honey. Awful lot of mail for you this morning. Anyone would think it was a special day.’ The older lady who manned the stage door emptied the pigeonhole marked ‘Woods’ and handed the armful of letters to Lexa with a wink. ‘Also, not to get ahead of ourselves, but the flowers have already started arriving. I’ll send some of them up later and you can collect the rest from the back office when you’re ready.’

‘What would I do without you to run my life?’

‘Oh, you’d manage somehow. You always struck me as a smart, practical kind of soul. For an artist, at least.’ Nina smiled kindly, secure in the knowledge that artists were too busy focusing on Higher Things to look after themselves like functional human beings. ‘Now, if there’s anything you need today, don’t hesitate to call down.’

‘I won’t. Could you give Anya my spare locker key if she asks for it? She’s coming in to take class.’

‘I’d be happy to. The sweet girl.’ Lexa tried and failed to imagine anyone else, under any other circumstances, calling Anya Hunter a sweet girl. ‘You know, it has been so nice seeing her around here again. Why, I remember her when she was just a slip of a thing at the school, gazing at everything with big round eyes...but I’m rambling.’

‘Nina, there is nothing I would like more than to hear all about Anya as a dumbstruck preteen.’

‘No, no. You get on. You have a lot to do.’

‘Break a leg tonight,’ called the porter as Lexa headed reluctantly for the elevator. ‘Or is that a little near the knuckle?’

‘Little bit, Frank.’

‘Break the other girl’s legs?’

‘That’s figure-skating.’

‘Let me know if you change your mind.’

‘I can handle my own leg-breaking.’

‘I believe it.’ He saluted solemnly as the elevator doors closed. ‘Knock ’em dead.’

 

***

 

It was Lexa’s seventh fall gala, her twenty-fourth season opener, and she had a routine. Three days before was the dress run. Two days before was for final full rehearsals and a quiet dinner with Lincoln. One day before was when she stayed late to get everything ready, at first in the noisy, crowded room she’d shared with eight other girls and then, for the last three years, in the dressing-room she’d been allocated when she made principal. She would only leave for the night once everything - the stacks of half-prepped pointe shoes, the tableful of makeup and muscle creams, the endless pairs of tights and the meticulously colored-in timetables on the wall - was ready for the performances, and turning out the light marked the end of the self-doubt and self-criticism and existential second-guessing that came with the long weeks of rehearsals. Going on stage was the easy bit. This was the world she had been born to.

Looking through her mail while she stretched for class was another habit, particularly on performance days, and the ballerina still marveled a little bit each time someone used up part of their day to write to her. Today there were postcards and notes from well-wishers, letters from dancers at companies she’d guested with abroad, drawings from children, a huge card signed by all the students in her Friday class and a smaller one in the same envelope from Aden. Lexa read them all, separated out the ones with return addresses, and tucked them neatly inside the lower rim of the mirror.

She was sitting gazing at them, chin in hands, when Lincoln popped his head round the door at 10.25. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Starting to think I should be wearing a sticker reassuring everyone of my good health.’

‘Oh, come on. They just want to make sure you’re okay.’

‘You know what I’m like.’

‘Allergic to sympathetic human interaction? Don’t remind me. We’ve got two minutes before we’re late, by the way.’

Lexa slid bonelessly back onto the floor with a sigh, reaching around to gather her things together. ‘I know, I know. It just rubs off on me. Performing would be so easy if people didn’t keep telling me that it’s a huge deal and I should be terrified.’

‘Literally no one says that.’

‘They do. With their eyes.’

Lincoln closed the door and sat down with his back to it. He took up most of the remaining floor. ‘Most people just assume it _would_ be terrifying to perform for three thousand dance connoisseurs. Normal people. Sane people.’

‘Are we crazy?’

‘Definitely.’ He reached up to examine the label on the black garment-bag someone had hung on the rail. _Woods - New Hunter_. ‘But someone has to be.’

 

***

 

Show days always gave Clarke the kind of excitement-mingled-with-dread that she could only compare to going to the dentist on Christmas Eve. The feeling of _arriving_ \- or running out of time - was equal parts exhilarating and petrifying, and the adrenaline gave her the kind of brittle energy where she knew she would either sweep all before her or crash spectacularly. It was what the designer worked for, and she welcomed it. Less familiar, and frankly increasingly alarming, was the feeling of powerlessness. At her fashion shows there was always someone else to check on, something else to fiddle with, running orders and contingency plans to go over just one more time. As a mere costume designer, her job was done. She’d left for the theater early out of habit, even after stopping for coffee and at the art shop on the way, but she realized as she sat in the cab that there was nothing for her to do when she got there.

This was good news for her overactive and extremely pessimistic subconscious, which sensed its opportunity and began to fill her head with various nightmare scenarios in which the costumes got lost, ripped, stained, stepped on, shrunk, unravelled, or ironed carelessly.

Melissa the extremely hot intern seemed to have appointed herself as Clarke’s guardian, and she popped out of nowhere when the designer arrived. ‘Ms Griffin! Isn’t this super exciting?’

Clarke couldn’t help but smile in response. ‘I told you, call me Clarke. I just can’t believe it’s here already.’

‘Right?! It feels like yesterday that I took you up for the first time. Where do you need to be? I think I saw Anya a minute ago…’

‘I’m not sure, really. I don’t think I’m actually supposed to be here yet.’

Melissa nodded knowingly. ‘Just too excited to wait? I know the feeling.’ _Kind of?_ ‘Well, if you’re not busy, I was just on my way to company class if you’d like to come watch?’

‘I wouldn’t be in the way?’

‘No, it’s fine. It’s basically a warm-up for their rehearsals. The last time I instagrammed it, one of the commenters said it looked like upright yoga.’ Melissa’s scorn could have stripped paint. ‘I could instagram you while you’re there, actually. _Tonight’s debut costume designer comes in,_ no, _drops in to watch class._ Hashtag showtime. If you’d be okay with that, obviously.’

‘Anything I can do to help.’

‘Instagram is an art,’ said Melissa seriously. ‘I think you’ll be a perfect model. And with company class I need all the help I can get.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll see.’

Clarke saw. Company class had none of the glamour of the stage, or the laser focus of the rehearsals she’d sat in on previously. Most of the dancers looked half-asleep, and several like they’d just rolled out of bed - there were no simple, elegant black practice leotards or pink tights like Clarke vaguely remembered from Octavia’s ballet classes as a kid. Lexa was wearing an enormous sweater, black leggings and bright blue socks, while Lincoln’s feet had disappeared inside huge puffy booties. Octavia was at least wearing proper soft ballet shoes, but her pristine feet were at odds with a Suzi Quatro t-shirt and zebra-striped legwarmers. Anya was there too, unexpectedly, looking as always like she’d wandered in from a Nike photoshoot, but Clarke still understood Melissa’s difficulty. It was not prime social media material.

The ceilings were high but the space below was packed, full of free-standing barres in the center of the room as well as the ones attached to the mirrored walls.  There must have been a hundred dancers, and in the crowd Lexa somehow seemed both more ordinary and more exceptional. She looked small, slight, surrounded by taller women and stronger men, bright, eager-to-please teenagers and serene older dancers with nothing left to prove. Clarke couldn’t stop staring anyway, fascinated by the proud neck and lifted chin and the almost casual grace of her movements, but it took a while to realize that she wasn’t the only one. She noticed the ripple of sidelong glances in the ballerina’s direction as other dancers peeked to compare how long she held a balance or how far she extended her limbs, or to try and imitate the languid, liquid way she unfurled those beautiful hands.

If Lexa noticed, she didn’t show it. If it wasn’t for the set of her jaw, Clarke would have thought she was barely concentrating.

After half an hour, Indra clapped her hands. ‘Good. Clear the room, please.’

Clarke blinked in surprise and reached for her bag, but no one was heading for the door. The girls went to sit down by the mirrors, pulling out pointe shoes and taping up their toes, while the men began to move the barres out of the middle of the studio.

‘Clearing space in the center,’ whispered Melissa helpfully. ‘They’ll practise turning now. Jumping’s last.’

‘Thanks.’

Lexa was sitting in a perfect split by the far wall, unwinding the ribbons around a pair of shoes, and smiled up at Clarke as their eyes met through the bustle. Clarke was about to wave like a teenager when Anya murmured something in the ballerina’s ear and made her way towards the designer, dancers scattering in front of her. ‘Morning, Griffin. Didn’t fancy joining in?’

‘I thought today of all days was a bad time to give Indra a heart attack.’

‘Oh, your dancing wasn’t that bad. Better than Barney.’

‘Bellamy.’

‘As I said.’ The choreographer sat down in the chair beside her.  But if you’re not here to dance, then…’

‘Why am I here?’ Clarke shrugged helplessly. ‘I guess I feel like I should be doing something. This is new for me, this... waiting. When it’s my show it feels like I’m on my feet for a full seventy-two hours.’

‘Lexa was the same, her first couple of seasons. She was barely fifteen when she was chosen for the company. Brilliant, of course, everyone could see that, but she could never let herself believe that she'd done enough.’ Anya watched critically as the first group of dancers began a step sequence down the diagonal. ‘The hardest thing for people like us is just letting ourselves...stop. Leaving a rehearsal before it’s perfect. Accepting that we can’t control for everything that might go wrong. Trusting yourself to work it out on the night if something does.’

‘But that’s just it.’ Clarke gestured at the activity in the center of the studio. ‘It’s harder for you and me. We have to just sit here and watch. There’s nothing we _can_ do.’

‘No,’ corrected Anya quietly. ‘That makes it easier. Because I could mess around with that choreography forever and never be satisfied, but I’d trust Lexa and Lincoln with anything on that stage. And I know that however it turns out, it’ll end up being exactly what I wanted.’

Lexa was in the second group, drifting through the same step sequence with an ease that was almost arrogant. They finished with a slow spin, like the one she’d made it halfway through last night before Clarke caught her, and the designer’s fingers prickled at the memory. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m looking forward to seeing her. It. The ballet.’ _Goddammit_. ‘But I know what I’m doing, and things don’t usually get taken out of my hands like this.’

The choreographer grinned. ‘I don’t know what picture you have in your head, but I’d lay money that you’ll prefer whatever you see tonight.’

And that, Clarke thought as her treacherous brain imagined another kiss, and the promise of skin beneath tulle, and more, was true in more ways than one.

 

***

 

Rehearsals finished at four on gala day, and Lexa had barely begun to inhale a granola bar back in her dressing-room when there was a careful knock on the door. ‘It’s open.’

One of the runners manoeuvred his way in carefully with armfuls of flowers. ‘Nina sent these up. And she said to remind you there’s plenty more where they came from.’

‘Windowsill, please. Oh, wait, I’ll take those ones.’

‘These? Hang on, they came with...’ He balanced the flowers precariously in one arm and twitched a letter out of his back pocket. ‘Here.’

Lincoln’s parents always sent her white irises for the fall season. Lexa sat down at the table and munched absently at an apple while she read the note - the kind of breezy, chatty letter that she always devoured, full of news that was both incredibly ordinary and, because of that, vitally important. Lincoln’s parents knew that she liked to hear about varsity matches and college scouts, art projects and prizes at the science fair, potluck with the neighbors and catching his little brother drinking beer in the backyard; regular family things which only really mattered if you were somehow part of them. If nothing else, it reminded her that there was a world outside the theater which would still be there, and still be there for _her_ , even if she broke both legs on the way to the stage and never danced again.

_Ten years, huh? We couldn’t believe it when we looked on the calendar. Seems like just yesterday that we were moving Lincoln into the dorms for the first time, but here you both are. You’ve become such a beautiful dancer, Lexa, and an even more beautiful young woman, and we’re so proud of you. And we need to tell you, because someone has to: your parents would have been even prouder than that._

_Enjoy yourself, honey. You’ll be fantastic._

It wouldn’t have been a premiere day without that undercurrent of heartache, a murmur in the background, a catch in the throat like cold air whenever she remembered. Lexa put the letter down carefully and folded her arms on the table, methodical as ever, accustomed to breathing her way out of the tightness in her chest. She knew her parents would have been proud of her, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. There was still a little kick of regret every time they didn’t see her on that stage. She had no one left who had known her first as Lexa the girl and not Lexa the dancer, the orphan, the prodigy, and - on show days in particular - she always tried to make time to check that the girl was still in there. It was easy to get lost within herself.

She was startled back to the present by noises on the other side of the wall; Lincoln coming in from his rehearsal. Lexa wiped her hands over her face, gave the door marked ‘Eastman’ a perfunctory knock as she opened it, and wrapped her arms solemnly, sincerely, around her partner’s shoulders where he sat at the mirror.

‘What’s this in aid of?’

‘Your horrible parents just came dangerously close to making me cry. Again.’

‘Oh, that.’ Lincoln crossed his arms over hers. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be a premiere without it.’

‘No.’

‘You okay?’

‘I will be.’

‘Good.’ They were quiet for a moment, exchanging strength without having to think about why they needed it, before Lincoln finally nodded. ‘We’ve got this, Lexa. Go have your nap and then we can go to the deli.’

 

***

 

Clarke had found out a couple of weeks earlier, completely by accident, that designing the costumes for a ballet also got you a free pass to dress the artists for the black-tie dinner after the performance. This had been exciting at the time but was now doubly thrilling because fetching the gowns finally gave Clarke something to do. Why get them couriered over like a normal person, she reasoned, when she could go to the studio herself, spend an hour checking hems and drape and beadwork one absolutely last final _final_ time, and ferry them personally across town?

 _I am an award-winning creative talent with better things to do than deliver clothes,_ she told herself half-heartedly, while also luxuriating guiltily in the sense of purpose.

‘Clarke,’ Octavia told her sternly when they met in the dancers’ lounge to hand over one of the gowns. ‘This is insane. You’ve already done your job. Just chill the fuck out and let Lex and Lincoln do theirs.’

‘I was hoping for sympathy, but sure, scorn and mockery is fine as well.’

‘We both know you’re an obsessive control-freak. And usually I would respect that, but this place is full of obsessive control-freaks and I have to draw the line somewhere.’

‘I know.’ The designer sighed and took the cup of coffee Octavia handed her. ‘I just want to be useful. I hate doing nothing when everyone else is so busy.’

‘Believe me, I can tell.’

‘It’ll be easier next time.’

‘ _Aha_.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means that you think there’s going to be a next time.’

‘Well. Maybe. I hope so.’

‘Okay. Let’s run with that,’ nodded Octavia with a maddening smirk, steering Clarke towards the door. ‘Now go away and let us do our stuff.’

Clarke let the dancer push her out into the corridor and lingered at the window, blowing on her coffee. Outside, the clouds had lifted and the workmen were unrolling a red carpet on the plaza in front of the theater. The designer wasn’t a fan of red carpets, still hadn’t got the hang of enjoying them even as she’d gotten better at faking it, but at least this one would be different - new faces, unfamiliar questions, a choreographer nearby to take some of the heat. Clarke hid a blush in her coffee cup, even though there was no one around to see her, as she admitted to herself that talking about Lexa would be easier than most of the things reporters wanted to hear about. The difficulty would be getting her to shut up.

The company had hired a room at the hotel next door for her and Anya to get ready, so there was only one more delivery to make before she left.

The principals’ dressing-rooms were upstairs, and quiet, and Clarke tiptoed on instinct as she searched for the right door. Some doors were open and lights on, as the dancers who were first onstage started to prepare, but music was turned down low and conversations were muffled. There was an anticipation in the air that it seemed no one wanted to disturb.

The door marked ‘Woods’ was ajar, but the room beyond it was still dark. Clarke poked it tentatively, wary of intruding, catching the scent of flowers and that familiar backstage smell that soaked into the walls after years of intensive hairspray and makeup use. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom after a second and she saw that Lexa was in there after all, curled up in a chair in the corner. Head down, feet tucked in beneath her, deeply, adorably asleep.

It felt almost too private, too unguarded, something Clarke hadn’t yet earned the right to see. Even in the quiet moments, the ballerina was always so luminous, all eyes and smirk and those beautiful, expressive hands, and she was so careful with herself that it seemed unfair to catch her defenseless. But the door had been open, and the weight of the garment-bag over Clarke’s arm reminded her that she was at least there on a legitimate errand.

Lexa stirred and murmured something, and Clarke froze, but the ballerina just rearranged herself like a cat and settled down again. The designer hung the dress on the rack as stealthily as possible, then dug very carefully in her purse for an old receipt and the stub of a pencil. The light from the corridor was enough to see a tin box full of hairpins on the dressing table, and she used one to fasten the hastily-scribbled note to the zipper of the garment-bag.

_Wait for me later. I want to see it on you._

 

***

 

Five thirty p.m., and Octavia Blake was seriously considering the feasibility of faking illness. Or kidnap. Or death.

‘Where is everybody?’

Octavia looked up and saw Lexa reflected in the mirror, still in sweats as she hovered in the doorway. ‘Don’t know. Still eating, I guess. I’m the only one in here who’s in the first ballet.’

The older dancer nodded, running a hand down the doorframe almost wistfully as she wandered inside. ‘This was my dressing room too, until I made principal. I sat over there. Is the radiator still broken?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘You’ll find out. I almost froze before I made it to my first _Nutcracker_.’

‘Might not even make it that far.’ Octavia heaved a sigh at the array of products on the table in front of her. It wasn’t like she’d never been onstage before, but not with such a huge theater or such bright lights. The company’s head makeup artist had made her up for the dress rehearsal, but her painstaking explanations of the process had completely gone out of Octavia’s head.

‘Turn round.’ Lexa spun a chair over from the next mirror and sat on it backwards, beckoning Octavia to face her. ‘Let me. I’m last ballet, I’ve got hours.’

‘I need to learn how to do it sometime…’

‘You will. Anya did my face before my first show. You’ve got hundreds of nights to get it right.’

‘Yeah.’ Octavia bit her lip as Lexa picked up the foundation, so thick you could barely move your face once it was on, and began to apply it briskly. ‘Do you really think so?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Just. I’m an apprentice, right? I don’t have hundreds of shows to get it right. I’ve got a year, and then Indra and Kane decide if they want me or not. I have to be good _now_.’

‘Close your eyes. Octavia, you’re dancing first ballet in the fall gala. As your first role. They know you’re good.’

‘That’s kind of worse. What if I’m not _that_ good? I don’t want to disappoint them.’ Lexa didn’t reply, and Octavia frowned suspiciously. ‘I can hear you smiling.’

‘Remember what you said the day we first met? That some people never have to worry if they’re going to get into a company? I believe the exact phrase you used was “natural fucking brilliance”.’ Lexa sat back with a last touch-up around Octavia’s nose. ‘Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you have become what you hate.’

‘It’s not the same thing.’

Lexa shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe not. But take it from me that there’s always something else to worry about. The better you get, the higher you reach. And you never get there.’

‘It’s not that, though. Or maybe it is. But I just…Doing this was my dream, and now that I’ve got it it just feels like one long opportunity to screw things up. All I can think about is how much I want to not get thrown out.’ She shivered reflexively, half cold, half nerves. ‘And that’s not a problem you have when you’re naturally fucking brilliant. Not for someone like you.’

‘Don’t do this,’ snapped Lexa coldly. ‘Don’t. Not again.’

Octavia stared. The ballerina had seemed so calm all day, so unaffected by the varying levels of suppressed panic around her, that the younger dancer hadn’t realized there might have been tension beneath the surface. In the startled silence, she felt her stomach twist. _I screwed up._

‘Sorry.’ She thought it was her own voice for a second, but then realized it was Lexa’s lips that had moved. ‘I’m sorry. That was...unfair. But Jesus fucking Christ, you have got to stop assuming that this is easy for me.’

Octavia shook her head warily. ‘I would never say you have it easy. I know how hard you work. But...all I meant was that surely the stakes are higher when there’s a danger you might not get another season, and, well. It’s not like that was ever on the cards for you.’

Lexa didn’t reply, twirling a makeup brush between her fingers, and Octavia wondered uneasily if she’d pushed too far. So she just sat on her hands, foundation drying stiff on her face, and waited.

‘Do you know how much the company have spent on me?’ Lexa’s tone when she did speak was cool, detached. Mathematical. ‘I became an apprentice when I was fifteen. That was my first salary. On top of that I had three years of ballet tuition and six of private school, plus year-round housing, all my food and clothes, pocket money, health insurance, Christmas presents. Treats on birthdays. I did the math one day when I was twelve, when I was helping in the office after class, and I worked out I was going to cost them seventy thousand dollars that year alone. And I still don’t know much they had to pay the lawyers to get custody of me in the first place.’ Her jaw tightened. Octavia watched her put down the brush, send a hand up to massage the back of her neck, consciously calm herself down. ‘I know now that it just showed how much they wanted me. They didn’t have to do it. But at the time it just felt like that was a hell of a lot of money, and if they decided they couldn’t afford me, I’d have nothing.’

‘But they wouldn’t do that to you. They wouldn’t just drop you. Not when they took you in like that.’

Lexa gazed at her for a moment before cracking a half-smile. ‘No. They wouldn’t. But I wasn’t that smart when I was twelve, or if I was, most of the time I was too messed up to think rationally.’ She sighed. ‘It took about a year to accept that they weren’t going to put me out on the street the second I had a bad class, and even after that I knew I didn’t just have to be good, I had to be good enough to justify them spending all that money. And ultimately it doesn’t matter if you’re scared of being kicked out of the company or you’re scared that you just won’t be worth the effort, because you’re scared either way.’

Octavia opened her mouth to argue out of instinct, but she bit her tongue as she met Lexa’s steady, honest gaze. ‘Then what do you do?’

‘You don’t. The stage does it for you. The second the curtain goes up you’ll forget about messing up, or getting kicked out, and every time you perform it gets easier.’ The ballerina shrugged a shoulder. ‘I work best on stage. It’s where I was meant to be. And we might have got here by different routes, but we have that in common.’

Octavia nodded, opening and closing her mouth again and again before she found the words. ‘I just want to know that I belong here.’

‘You want a certificate?’ Lexa grinned and picked up a box of eyeshadows. ‘Get back to me tonight, once we’re done out there, and you’ll swear you’ve never belonged anywhere else.’

Octavia let herself smile in response, closing her eyes obediently when Lexa gestured. The ballerina started off with eyeliner, sweeping it dramatically upwards to lift the face, and Octavia matched her breathing to the gentle, methodical brushstrokes along her lashes. Part of her was aware of the clock ticking down relentlessly, spinning her headlong towards her fate in a rush of exquisite panic, but it was slowed by Lexa’s steady, reassuring presence, the good-luck cards piled up on the table, the bouquet from Lincoln.

_Lincoln._

‘Can I, um. Ask a private question?’

Lexa’s hand stilled. Octavia imagined the elegant arch of her brow. ‘More private than my tragic backstory and incredibly personal advice for coping with destiny and greatness?’

‘Haha.’ At least, she assumed it was a joke. ‘Not really. Just. Are we allowed to date?’ Her eyes flew open accusingly at Lexa’s hiccup of laughter. ‘What? I’m serious.’

‘Sorry.’ Lexa nodded solemnly and tried, not completely successfully, to hide a smirk. ‘Indra isn’t your mother. Of course you’re allowed to date.’

‘No, I mean. Well. Within the company.’

‘ _Oh_.’ The ballerina sat back, looking like she was choosing her words. ‘You can date anyone you like as long as it won’t get in the way of your career. If you broke up with them you’d still have to spend hours with them every day. Worse if you got partnered.’

‘Surely Indra wouldn’t pair you up if she knew you hated each other.’

‘Of course she would, if you look good together. I hated Jasper Jordan’s pathetic, entitled guts at school and I still had to let him throw me around onstage every night for a week the first time we did _Sleeping Beauty_.’

‘Oh.’

Lexa shrugged. ‘Close your eyes. I wouldn’t let that stop you. Lincoln’s been in the company long enough to know what he’s doing.’

‘Hang on, I never said who…’ Octavia’s hands tightened on the edge of the chair. ‘How did you know? Did he say something?’

‘No, but neither of you are very subtle. Even by my standards, which according to Anya are much lower than I thought.’

‘Oh. So. If I asked him out, would he say yes?’

‘Probably. Open your eyes.’ Octavia opened her eyes wide, expecting to see Lexa sitting back to compare eyeliner wings, but the ballerina’s gaze was far too intent for that. ‘I hope I don’t need to tell you this, but let me spell it out anyway. Lincoln is the best person I know. The kindest, the most generous, the most selfless. He’s picked me up off the floor more times than I can count, and I don’t just mean literally. And if you fuck him over, I will bury you.’

The younger dancer blinked. ‘Are you serious?!’

‘I like you, Octavia, and I think Lincoln would be lucky to have you. But he’s my partner and my best friend, so yes, I’m very serious.’

‘Okay. If we’re going there, it’s my turn.’ Octavia took a deep breath. ‘Listen, I understand what a bitch this schedule can be. I know there’s only so much you can do. But you really have to try, Lexa. You have to choose Clarke every time you feasibly can, because she is _my_ best friend and she deserves the world and you have to give her everything you have left.’

‘I know.’

‘I mean it. If we’re going to do this, either of us, we have to do it properly.’

Lexa gave a half-shrug. ‘I’ve been here before. And believe me, no one wants to make this work more than I do.’

‘Good.’ Octavia was suddenly conscious of being tired, a relieved exhaustion like finishing a particularly tough workout. ‘Fucking hell. We don’t make things easy for ourselves.’

‘God forbid that life should be easier than art.’ Lexa sat back at last, intensity gone, replaced by something simpler and almost more persuasive. ‘He’s a good one, and if you break him I’ll kill you.’

‘She’s the best, and if you make her cry you won’t be able to live with yourself.’

‘I knew I liked you,’ said Lexa gravely. ‘And I think you’re going to be completely fine.’

 

***

 

‘How do I look?

‘Oh my god, your dress is fantastic! Where did you get it?’

‘Very funny. Excuse me while I titter.’ Anya appeared in the doorway, gorgeous and terrifying in smoky eyeshadow and eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass, wearing an emerald-green gown from Clarke’s most recent collection. ‘Will I do? I don’t want to make you pine for the blonde size zero Amazon who presumably wore this last.’

‘One, that’s really funny, you should totally write it down, and two, you look spectacular. But you didn’t need me to tell you that.’

‘I enjoy validation as much as the next girl. Anyway, this may come as a shock but I don’t wear couture every day.’

Clarke grinned and stood to check the fall of her gown in the full-length mirror. ‘And the last time I designed for the stage was my grade school production of _The Wizard of Oz_ , so I guess we’re both outside our comfort zones tonight.’

‘I guess so.’ The choreographer sat down in Clarke’s vacated chair. ‘Listen, thanks for doing this. I honestly think it’s going to be good. Really good.’

‘I thought I was crazy at first,’ confessed Clarke. ‘When I came to that rehearsal, and it was all so...I’d never designed anything that had to carry so much meaning. But it was a good challenge. I needed it.’

Anya nodded. ‘I’m glad. And I’m only going to say this once, but you’re not the only one who’s gained by it.’

Gowns on, shoes chosen, hairdresser and makeup artist instructed, hairpins, hair curlers, hairspray - Clarke went to more than her fair share of fancy events, but it was still strange being fussed over instead of doing the fussing. Her compulsive practicality, her need to be up and doing, had left her fidgeting in her chair, and it was a relief to leave the hotel at last and make the short walk to the plaza with the glorious fall sunshine on her face.

This red carpet was an unusual mixture of celebrities, city socialites, the odd politician, business sponsors, old-money donors, and dancers Clarke vaguely recognized from her research. But the press were the press, and - as always - they needed feeding.

‘Clarke! Anya!’

Anya blanched at the young reporter’s manic enthusiasm and gestured at random towards a suddenly pressing engagement on the other side of the media pen. Clarke, trapped, felt her heart sink as she saw the Buzzfeed logo.

‘Clarke! Isn’t this amazing? You must be so excited!’

‘Absolutely. This has been a long time in the making. I was at the dress rehearsal on Wednesday and the ballet’s going to be absolutely fantastic.’

‘How have you enjoyed the experience? Your first in a theater context, correct?’

‘Yeah, absolutely.’ _Note to self: buy a thesaurus._ ‘The company costume staff have been absolu - er, brilliant. And the other creatives couldn’t have been more welcoming. Anya Hunter, the choreographer, and of course the dancers Lexa and Lincoln. It’s been great to have the benefit of their experience, and they’ve been so generous with it.’

The reporter gestured around at the plaza, the theater, golden in the sun. ‘And this is such an amazing venue for your first venture into costume design. City Ballet, Lexa Woods - you must be pinching yourself.’

‘I’m very lucky,’ replied Clarke simply. ‘They’re wonderful artists and wonderful people. It’s been the opportunity of a lifetime.’

‘Great.’ The reporter gave a dazzling smile which, the designer sensed uneasily, spelt trouble. ‘Okay, since you’re new to the ballet world, we’ve got a little game for you to play. I’ll say a word or phrase and you tell me if it’s ‘ballet or patisserie’. Oh, and we’ll be filming some reaction gifs. Sound good?’

‘Great,’ said Clarke, dying inside.

‘Awesome. We’ll start with an easy one. Croquembouche?’

 

***

 

The principals’ corridor directly overlooked the plaza, but Lexa watched the activity below almost like she was floating. Alone in her dressing-room, there was something unreal about the bright white smiles and polite laughter on the red carpet, or the near-frantic energy downstairs. Ever since her first season with the company, she’d found that the nerves receded the closer she got to the performance. The hours ticked down, the doubts fell away, and everything became clear.

The knock at her door was so quiet that at first she wasn’t sure if she’d really heard it. ‘Hello?’

Lexa’s stomach did an embarrassingly eager backflip as the door opened a crack and Clarke’s head appeared. ‘Am I interrupting?’

‘No, no, come in.’ The ballerina swallowed silently as Clarke pushed the door closed behind her. The designer was radiant in a gold-sequined gown, hair arranged with just the right degree of artlessness, so golden and so flawless that it was almost hard to look at her. ‘You look…’ _Blinding_.

‘It’s not too much?’

‘It’s perfect. Sit down, I was just eating.’

‘Is that all you’re having?!’

Lexa looked down in surprise - yogurt, dark chocolate, somewhat chaotically deconstructed whole-wheat wrap - and shrugged. ‘I don’t like to eat anything heavy before performing. Almond?’

‘Fairly sure I’ll be sick if I eat anything. You won’t, I mean...faint?’

‘Clarke.’

‘Sorry, sorry, you know best. I didn’t actually come to be annoying. I just…’ The designer trailed off, self-conscious. ‘I wanted to say good luck. If you’d rather not be disturbed, just say the word, but. It would have felt wrong to do all this without seeing you.’

‘I’m glad you did.’ Lexa felt an exhilarating thrill of terror, like missing a step, that had something to do with the performance and a lot to do with the pretty girl in her room. ‘How was the red carpet?’

‘Terrible. Although I did learn that a frappé is a ballet step and not in fact a coffee-flavored pastry. So I’m sure that’ll be terribly useful.’

‘Undoubtedly. How are you feeling about tonight?’

‘Isn’t that my line?’

‘It’s your first premiere.’

‘You’re the one doing the hard work.’

‘But I’m used to it. I enjoy it. Everything makes sense on stage.’ Lexa had never tried to explain how it felt to perform - all her friends were dancers who didn’t need to be told, and Costia had hated performing so much that they’d just never talked about it - but it suddenly seemed really, really important that Clarke understand. ‘The rehearsals, the conditioning, eating right, sleeping right - it’s all so I can be here, now. I don’t know why I’m good at this, God knows I never did anything to deserve it, but I can’t _not_ do it.’

‘I know.’

‘Even if you asked me to.’

‘Lexa, I would _never_ ask you to stop dancing.’

‘Okay.’ The ballerina looked down, embarrassed at her insistence. ‘Sorry. It’s just, while I was injured it felt like I had someone else’s feet on. I still can’t believe I’m really back.’

Clarke edged closer tentatively. ‘You might know best, but I know a good thing when I see it. And you look pretty great to me.’

‘Maybe, but I bet you weren’t looking at my feet.’

‘I resent the implication.’

‘Am I wrong?’

‘No,’ sighed the designer. ‘Most of the time I’m looking at your face, and your neck. The way you hold your head. And I love your hands. You just...I’ve never seen anyone move like you do. You’re fascinating.’ She broke off as she caught Lexa's eye. ‘What?’

‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were objectifying me.’

‘Artist’s privilege.’ Clarke reached out, silently seeking permission, and gently extended Lexa’s arm, gesturing at the natural drape of her hand. ‘See that? The curve of your wrist and down your index finger? That’s not a line I ever thought was important - it isn’t, on most people. But you make me see differently. And for an artist…’ She replaced Lexa’s hand carefully, almost reverently, on the table. ‘That’s everything.’

Lexa sat frozen, trapped by blue eyes and the weight of how much she wanted to get this right. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Don’t look so anxious. You do it just by existing.’ The designer hesitated, rearranging the folds of her golden gown around her chair. ‘But let me come by after the performance?’

‘I was counting on it.’

‘ _Six-fifteen p.m.,’_ announced a voice over the tannoy. ‘ _Forty-five minute call. Beginners to costume please.’_

‘I should go,’ sighed Clarke. ‘Have you seen Octavia? I didn’t finish the carpet in time to wish her luck.’

‘She’s going to be great. Did you see her dress run? The girl pretty much eats the stage.’

‘Okay. Yes. She was good, wasn’t she?’

‘Very good,’ promised Lexa sincerely. ‘Where do you need to go? Shall I find someone to take you?’

‘No, I know the way. Cocktail reception before curtain up.’ Clarke stood gloomily and shook out her skirts. ‘The _Times_ culture editor seemed very keen to talk to me. Probably salivating at the prospect of revealing my ignorance of dance.’

‘At least now you won’t try to offer him a frappé from the refreshment table.’

‘She makes jokes.’

Lexa tossed an almond at the designer as she escaped out the door.

‘ _Six-thirty, ladies and gentlemen, this is your half-hour call for_ Interplay _._ ’

 _‘Six-fifty, ten minutes to_ Interplay.’

 _‘This is your five minute call for_ Interplay, _beginners to stage please.’_

‘All right?’ said Lincoln at eight o’clock, poking his head round the door.

‘All right. Did you do that eyeliner yourself?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Crooked.’

‘Damn,’ sighed Lincoln, sinking down into the other chair. ‘Every time. I can never get the left eye straight.’

Lexa grinned and picked up a brush. ‘This is getting to be a habit for me.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I did Octavia’s makeup earlier. Keep your eyes closed.’ The ballerina smirked as Lincoln’s expression flickered. ‘We had a nice chat.’

‘Oh, good.’ Lexa began to count in her head. On the dot of five, Lincoln cleared his throat casually. ‘Er, what about?’

‘This and that. The show. First-night nerves. I think your name came up once or twice. And obviously the state of the coffee in the -’

‘Hang on, hang on. You talked about me?’

‘If you don’t keep your eyes closed I’m going to end up stabbing you.’ Lexa relented and leaned back. ‘You like her, don’t you?’

‘Octavia? I…’ Her partner fidgeted, a million miles away from his usual easygoing assurance. ‘Yeah. I wasn’t sure if I liked her for _her_ , or I was just interested because she was new, but. I know now.’

‘Ask her out.’

‘Really?’

‘I seem to remember a wise man telling me I wouldn’t be happy until I cleared the air. And he was right.’

‘That was different.’

‘You two can’t keep circling each other like this without doing something.’

‘No. No, you’re right.’ Lincoln clasped his hands, as though locking down the nervous energy, and nodded resolutely. ‘I should say something. But does she...what exactly did she say about me?’

‘You’ll have to ask her.’

‘Some wingman you are.’

‘Lincoln.’ Lexa put the brush down and used her fingers, very gently, to clean up the final misplaced smudge around her partner’s left eye. ‘You deserve all the good things in the world, so you need to take this chance. We both know they don’t come around so often.’

‘Okay, okay, you’ve sold me. I’ll talk to her. _Yes,_ I promise.’ Lincoln smiled and squeezed her shoulder as he stood up. ‘Thanks, Lex. See you in an hour.’

 

***

 

‘I didn’t remind Lexa about staying on the diagonal for the turn sequence in the second theme,’ said Anya suddenly, as the curtain closed for the last time and the applause for the previous performance died away. ‘If I go now I might be able to catch her before - what the fuck are you doing?’

Clarke had looped her arm through the choreographer’s in a gesture which would have been affectionate if it wasn’t quite so bone-shatteringly firm. ‘Just keeping you grounded. And making sure you don’t break your ankle charging around backstage in your heels. Anyway, I thought you trusted Lexa and Lincoln with anything on stage?’

‘I do, but -’ Anya sighed and sank back into her seat. Front row, right behind the orchestra. ‘Ultimately, powerlessness is not my style. Nor yours, I suspect.’

Clarke avoided the unspoken question. ‘Lexa looked pretty relaxed when I saw her earlier, if that’s any comfort.’

Anya snorted fondly. ‘ _Relaxed._ Girl’s in her element. The closer she is to stage time, the happier she is. The studio is basically designed for self-criticism, even when you’re that good, but...there are no mirrors on stage.’

‘Just three thousand people watching your every move.’

‘Lexa cares about precisely four opinions. Mine, Lincoln’s, Indra’s, and her own. In ascending order.’ The choreographer shrugged non-committally. ‘Might rise to five before the evening is out. We’ll see.’

Clarke was saved from replying by the reappearance of the conductor and joining in the polite applause as he stood the orchestra up for a bow. She’d tried to be calm about the premiere, even managed to forget sometimes while she watched the other ballets on the programme, but she was suddenly pinned to her seat by the unique last-minute panic of being unable to turn back. In the last moment before the house lights went down, she looked over and saw Anya gripping the armrest hard enough to shatter it.

A charged, whispering beat of quiet, and it was out of their hands.

In the dress rehearsal, the designer had had her mind on practical things: did the bodice twist under Lincoln’s hands, did the cut of the shoulders create the right line when Lexa moved her arms, was the skirt the right length to trail just so when she did an arabesque. But now, caught up by the magic of the hushed, spellbound darkness, Clarke saw it all as it was meant to be seen. Instead of a lovely girl in a beautiful dress, she saw an ethereal stranger forging her way through shadows, unlocking space with each movement of those endlessly expressive hands. Instead of steps carefully choreographed and intensively rehearsed, it was as though the ballerina was discovering each one as she danced it, as instinctive as breathing.

‘The original inspiration was _Sleeping Beauty_ in reverse. The princess rescuing the prince,’ Anya had explained at that first rehearsal, with a wry smile. ‘This first section is her searching for him. Then she finds him, and he thinks he was doing just fine on his own, but then they work out that they can do more together. He can lift her, she can balance his weight. So they start to trust each other, but there’s no compulsion. They don’t _need_ each other, they want each other, because they make each other better.’

 _That’s partnership_ , Clarke completed, the only clear, conscious thought she had throughout the whole ballet. _That’s love_.

It was over far too quickly, but no one moved after the lights faded to black. The whole auditorium was transfixed, compelled, poised on a brittle, breathless bubble of silence before someone started the applause. Clarke realized she’d been leaning forward and sat back slowly, drinking in the feeling that everyone in that theater had just been part of something rare and special, and pushing away the little twinge of sadness that this thing, which had been theirs alone, now belonged to the whole world.

The sound of the applause was almost physical in its intensity and its closeness, right at Clarke’s back, and it got impossibly louder as the lights came up again to reveal the dancers. Lexa and Lincoln seemed tiny on the vast stage now that there was no music or spotlight, faces uplifted to the faraway top circle of seats before they bent to take their first bow.

‘Go,’ prompted Anya in an undertone, nudging Clarke’s arm. ‘I’m right behind you.’

The designer looked round in surprise to see an usher at the end of the row, beckoning them out, and she obediently excused her way down the obstacle course of feet, applauding hands, and purses on the floor. They were led down the side and through a nondescript side door, passing through a brightly lit corridor and stairwell before coming out in the wings. Clarke’s mental picture of the backstage area had been cramped and dark, largely based on vague memories of school plays, and she was amazed by the strange blue lighting  and the cavernous upward vastness, a tangle of ladders and gantries and fragile floating walkways.

‘That was good,’ said Anya triumphantly in her ear, squeezing her arm. ‘ _Really_ good. They were amazing. Fuck, listen to the audience...they loved them.’

Everything still had a slightly surreal, out-of-body quality for Clarke, but she found herself getting caught up in the excitement anyway. ‘They loved _it_ , Anya. Your ballet. Your work.’

‘Don’t read anything sentimental into this, but I’m going to hug you now.’

‘Be my gue -’

She was cut off by the force of the promised hug. ‘Thank you, Clarke. That was everything I hoped it would be.’

‘Thank _you_ ,’ said Clarke breathlessly, too high on elation to come up with words of more than one syllable. ‘Thank you, thank you.’

A stagehand shepherded them further towards the stage as the curtain came down. Clarke saw Lexa and Lincoln sag in exhaustion as they were cut off from the audience’s view, holding each other up, faces framed in each other's hands. She didn’t have to be a lip-reader to guess what they were murmuring to each other. _It’s done. We did it. We did it._

‘Curtain,’ bawled someone to her right, and the two dancers drew themselves up, visibly assuming the grace and authority they’d had during the performance. Clarke felt a rush of air as the curtains opened again, the muffled thrum of applause becoming a deafening thunder. Lexa and Lincoln went forward again, bowed to the audience and to each other, once, twice, Lexa’s skirt falling like water from the flawless line of her leg, three times - and then the ballerina held out a hand towards the two of them, and Clarke found herself being pushed gently out onto the stage behind Anya.

She’d never seen so many people. The glow from the stage lights fell on rows upon rows upon rows of faces, hundreds and hundreds of noisy, enthusiastic hands. She knew that most of them had no idea who she was, she knew they weren’t there for her, but it was impossible not to be affected by the sheer warmth in the theater. These were people who loved their dancers and wanted them to know it. It could have been a dream - the glare of the lights, the almost physical press of the sounds, Lincoln kissing her hand with a smile and a gallant flourish - except that Lexa’s arm around her was warm and solid and real, and the butterfly kiss on her cheek would have been enough to send her wide awake. Clarke bowed at Anya’s cue, accepted a bouquet, bowed again; it was overwhelming and addictive, intimidating and deeply, achingly fulfilling. They had done it, all of them together, and it was their best.

Indra was waiting for them in the wings when the curtains finally closed for the last time. Clarke got a handshake, formal expressions of congratulation and thanks, but the designer saw the older woman’s words fail her as she turned to her dancers. A moment later she’d pulled them in for a hug, one arm around Lexa and the other around Lincoln. Based on Anya’s delighted grin, it wasn’t a regular occurrence.

‘Go and change,’ she said gruffly, as she released them. ‘A lot of people are waiting for you.’

 

***

 

It was fifteen minutes before Clarke managed to find her way to the stage door and navigate back up to the principals’ corridor with her newly-delivered package in hand. Lexa had already changed out of her costume into her gala gown under an enormous hoodie, and she was sitting at her dressing-table with her skirts hiked up and her feet in a bucket full of ice, applying fresh makeup at lightning speed while one of the hairdressing assistants swept her hair into a braided updo.

‘Clarke!’ The ballerina’s smile was unguarded, radiant, the kind that could set things on fire. ‘Sit down, nearly done. Thanks, Carly, it’s beautiful.’ She caught Clarke’s eye in the mirror and smirked. ‘Even the fashion designer thinks so, and the fashion designer doesn’t like me with my hair up.’

‘That’s not even slightly true.’

‘Pretty sure it was the second thing you ever said to me.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant and you know it.’ Clarke put the package down carefully against the wall, oddly thrown by seeing Lexa so uninhibitedly _joyful_. ‘It worked, though.’

‘Yeah, it did,’ said Lexa simply. ‘You were right. I always knew you would be, obviously.’

‘Obviously. You never doubted me for a second.’

‘Not after I saw your design. You’d be surprised how many fashion designers struggle with ballet costumes. But yours always looked...danceable.’

‘I can’t believe I did it,’ admitted Clarke. ‘I can’t believe I agreed to do it in the first place. I must have been temporarily insane.’

‘For what it’s worth, I’m glad you did.’ Lexa closed her eyes against a final blitz of hairspray and beamed at Carly. ‘Thanks again. You go get ready, I can manage.’

‘You sure?’

‘Clarke here is apparently a professional.’

‘Oh, well then.’ Carly winked at Clarke as she headed out. ‘Careful with that one. She gets mean if you pinch her with a zip.’

Lexa leaned slowly back in her chair as the door closed, stretching her feet and setting the ice cubes clinking in the bucket. Clarke couldn’t help but grin at the visible war being waged between blissed-out contentment and bone-crushing tiredness. ‘You look happy.’

The ballerina nodded, running her hands over cheeks aching from smiling too much. ‘The curse of coming off stage. You’re so excited that all you want is to dance down the corridors, but you can’t because your legs feel like they weigh a hundred pounds. Each. What did -’ She pressed her lips together for a split-second, flickeringly uncertain. ‘Well. What did you think?’

‘What did _I_ think?’ Clarke stared. ‘Lexa, it was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I’m still not sure what I expected, but this was better.’ _I don’t know what picture you have in your head, but I’d lay money that you’ll prefer whatever you see tonight._ Anya was too smart for her own good.

‘Really?’

‘Really. And I got you something to mark it. Anya said you’d have enough flowers, so.’ Clarke held out the package. ‘Here.’

‘Can I open it?’

‘Please.’

Lexa took it and unwrapped it carefully, brown paper put neatly to one side, and let out a breath. ‘Clarke, I -’

‘Is it okay? Do you like it?’

It was her first sketch of Lexa’s costume, the one the ballerina had looked at in that first fitting, tucked away behind the mannequins and bales of fabric in the back of the costume shop. Clarke had dropped it off to be framed on her way to the theater and paid an exorbitant fee to get it delivered to the stage door afterwards, but the effort was worth every cent. Irritatingly, Anya had been right again.

‘I love it,’ said Lexa sincerely. ‘It’s perfect.’ She rested the sketch on the table, staring at it for a moment, and smoothed down the folds of her skirts.  ‘Making this ballet has been everything I could have hoped for, Clarke. As a dancer and as...me.’

Clarke swallowed. ‘Me too.’

‘I guess this marks the end of our working relationship.’

‘I guess it does.’

Neither of them moved. The silence wasn’t awkward, just _charged_ \- Clarke had rarely felt as comfortable in someone’s eye contact as she was in Lexa’s weighty, eloquent gaze. The ballerina’s head was tilted, and the designer sensed that they were both on the edge of something, about to take the irrevocable step and fall together over the cliff. For the second time that night, she was struck by how much she cared about the next moments going well.

‘Pass me that towel?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘That towel. Could you pass it over?’

Clarke obeyed mutely, but felt an urge to giggle at the intrusion of something as mundane as a towel into a moment that had definitely been going somewhere. Lexa shivered as she lifted her feet out of the ice bucket to dry them off, and pulled her heels towards her with a smile at Clarke. ‘Close your eyes.’

The designer did as she was told, again, trying to identify the sounds as Lexa moved around the room. ‘Can I open them?’

‘You’re not used to having to wait for things, are you?’

‘Sorry. Self-employed.’ Clarke grinned, hands drumming restlessly on her chair. ‘Now?’

‘Fine.’

Clarke opened her eyes and let out a sigh of equal parts relief and delight, caught between her habit of searching for flaws and her instinct to sit back and admire. Lexa met her eyes briefly, almost shy, and turned slowly on the spot to let her see the gown. Midnight-blue velvet, full-skirted, backless. It was one of the simplest things Clarke had ever made for a collection, nothing but a beautiful fabric and well-cut lines, and for once she didn’t want it to be innovative or visionary or talked-about. She wanted it to be _perfect._

‘Well?’

‘Lexa.’ Clarke got to her feet, wanting to look everywhere at once, searching for the right words. ‘It looks different on you. It _feels_ different on you. It feels _more_.’

The ballerina gave her a small smile. ‘Your work.’

‘It’s not just work. Not when you’re wearing it.’ The designer took a deep breath. ‘Wearable art. It’s what I’m always looking for. And I don’t always find it.’

Her mouth watered at the lithe muscles of Lexa’s back, supple skin and tiny, fluid movements as the dancer turned to collect her clutch from the table, and she reached out automatically to smooth the flow of the skirt around her hips. Lexa arched away with a sigh, an instinctive shiver of the shoulders. ‘Don’t.’

Clarke snatched her hands away. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you didn’t mind - I thought you wanted -’

‘Stop.’ Lexa put down her purse and stepped closer, slowly, carefully, testing boundaries before reaching out. Clarke felt her eyes shutter closed at the slide of the ballerina’s warm palm along her jaw, and she leaned into the patient, undemanding kiss as though she could turn it into something fierce enough to satisfy the restless burn of wanting, _needing_ more.

‘It’s been driving me mad,’ Lexa said quietly when she drew back; not far, still close enough that Clarke could feel the heat from her skin. ‘Every time you held a tape measure against me. Every time you made an alteration or used your finger to guide a pin. Every tiny touch. Never enough.’ She let out a breath, barely there, whisper-soft on Clarke’s face. ‘And there’s not enough time right now for the way I want you to touch me.’

There wasn’t room for a single thought in Clarke’s head, except for how much she wanted to oblige. ‘Which is how?’

‘Like you mean it.’

 

***

 

It was a shock to remember that there was a world outside that room. Every one of Clarke’s senses was heightened, her blood singing, elementally aware of every glance and every gesture from the girl in the blue gown. She agonized at the timetable that forced them out into the real world, and ached with the desire to be back behind that door.

The spell was broken, or at least interrupted, by the literally breathtaking sensation of a Blake squeeze. Octavia flew into Clarke’s arms the second they reached the bottom of the stairs, face alight with the same elation she’d seen in Lexa and Lincoln. ‘We did it, Clarke. It really happened.’

Clarke squeezed back, eyes prickling, remembering her friend’s long years of dance classes and doubting and dreaming. ‘I’m so proud of you I could burst.’

‘You’d better not, not all over the dress. How do I look?’ Octavia released her and did an exuberant twirl. Deep black velvet V at front and back, bold poppy-print silk skirt. It suited her as well as Clarke had predicted. ‘It feels amazing, anyway. And Lexa.’ She descended on the older dancer, giving her a fierce hug that took her by surprise. ‘Thank you, Lexa. Really. For everything.’

‘You don’t need to thank me.’

‘Yeah, I do. Sometimes I needed a kick up the ass, and you gave me one.’

‘I taught her well.’ Anya, coming round the corner in a majestic blaze of emerald, the chandelier sending peacock shimmers on the walls. ‘Come on, we should go in. You hungry, Griffin?’

‘Starving.’

‘Welcome to a dancer’s schedule,’ Lexa whispered ruefully in her ear, as they were swept along into the hall.

The seating plan was kind. There were more drinks beforehand, to give the various donors and honoured guests and the occasional genuine fan a chance to make small talk with the talent, but eventually dinner was announced and the tables filled. Clarke found herself sitting between Lexa and Lincoln, with Anya and her plus one to Lexa’s other side and Octavia and Bellamy beyond Lincoln. Octavia’s smile as they sat down had been extremely bright, bordering on sinister. ‘Bell, you remember Lincoln. We’re going on a date next Monday. And if you’re anything other than incredibly nice and well-behaved about it, I’ll kill you.’

Anya’s plus one, Raven, had a lot of feelings about the performances. ‘I mean, the physics of those spins you do. I’d love to model it. How would you feel about having sensors stuck all over you?’

Lexa smirked. ‘I thought you were a physiotherapist.’

‘I am. Physics is a hobby. Just one of my many extra-curricular activities, if you know what I mean.’ Raven winked at Anya, who groaned and narrowly avoided faceplanting in her soup. ‘Genuinely, though. It was amazing. But I’m glad it’s over.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Anya’s been a moody nightmare and it’s exhausting.’

‘I seem to remember it was your idea to stay over at mine this week. I think you even said it would be fun.’

‘I didn’t say _fun_ , I said I might be able to help release your tension. Which we did. Several ti -’

‘Oh my god,’ sighed Lexa, smiling weakly at the senator and her husband sitting over the other side of the table, who both looked hugely entertained. ‘Deliver me from former medical students.’

Cutlery clinked. Toasts were made. The wine flowed. One glass became two became four, except for Octavia who pouted and switched to water after remembering that she was dancing in two ballets the following day. Like at the birthday party a week before, Clarke was amazed at how well Lexa seemed to be holding her liquor. ‘There’s nothing _of_ you. How can you possibly soak it up?’

‘Natural talent?’ Lexa held her gaze for slightly too long to be _just_ a gaze, eyes very dark, and glanced down at Clarke’s plate. ‘Not eating?’

‘Difficult to think about food when you’re looking at me like that.’

There was a shuffle of chairs as Kane and Indra, at the top table with the biggest donors and the bluest blood, rose and gestured their guests graciously towards the bar. The party was breaking up. There was live music and a dancefloor, and two or three couples headed towards it, all skirts and tapping heels and tuxedos sharp against the soft lighting. Raven and Anya wandered over to join them, somehow managing to keep each other more or less upright.

‘Want to dance?’ Lincoln asked Lexa with a knowing grin.

‘Wild horses wouldn’t drag, Linc.’

‘I know. Just thought I should ask.’ He reached out and pulled his partner in for a final hug, whispering something in her ear before he let her go. ‘Until tomorrow, then. Clarke, I’m sure I’ll see you again.’

‘Bye, Lincoln.’ Clarke watched him go, heart hammering, conscious of Lexa beside her even without looking. ‘So.’

‘So.’

‘What happens now?’

‘I’ve danced enough for one day.’ Lexa turned to pick up her purse, breath grazing Clarke’s ear. A promise of more. ‘Let’s get out of here.’


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still reading this I'm a) really grateful and b) really really sorry for the wait for this chapter. If you follow me on tumblr you'll be aware of my battle with law school exams which are miserable and go on for fucking ever. BUT they're all done now so here we are. 
> 
> Enjoy! My tumblr is @southsouthwest, my askbox is open and I now have a lot of time on my hands

They reached Lexa’s apartment in a haze of promise and alcohol and burning glances across the back seat of a cab. They didn’t say a word to each other for the whole journey, but it was as loud a silence as Clarke had ever known. It felt like she’d let out a sigh of relief as the curtain came down and hadn’t breathed since, trapped in airless anticipation, unable to think of anything but how badly she wanted to be here, now, sat in the back seat of a car with a girl who was both dangerously close and not nearly close enough.

She was holding the cash out to the driver before they’d even stopped moving. Lexa led the way up the dark stairwell, shadows playing across her bare back, and the designer almost tripped over in her haste to follow. After so long observing, learning Lexa’s body as best she could without ever being able to touch, she ached to make those muscles move for _her,_ respond to her fingers, her voice, her mouth. Clarke remembered how she’d felt the last time they’d climbed these stairs, poised on the edge of something without quite knowing how she’d got there; this time, she knew that if Lexa so much as looked at her, she’d throw herself off. It was risky and reckless and terrifying, and Clarke couldn’t remember wanting anything more.

Lexa wavered as they reached the top, turning her keys over in her hands. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Lexa, open the damn door.’

She almost didn’t recognize her own voice, husky with gin and longing, but it did the trick. The door opened, the apartment dark on the other side, a breeze gusting past from an open window somewhere beyond - and then it was closed again and Clarke found herself pressed against it. She felt a split-second bite of cold metal against her skin as Lexa’s keys brushed her neck, and then the warmth of hands cradling her jaw and lips on hers, open-mouthed, sure to the point of desperation.

 _There’s not enough time right now for the way I want you to touch me_.

 _Oh, just you wait_.

Clarke moved on instinct, tracing patterns she’d mapped out in her head every night for weeks. Keys fell to the floor as she shifted her weight, backing Lexa slowly into the wall, hands finding hips, _you want to be touched, then let me touch you_. The movement barely broke the kiss. Lexa’s tongue was licking into Clarke’s mouth, hands scrabbling to get purchase on the gold sequins and pull her closer, Clarke equally determined to pin her there. In Clarke’s imagination there hadn’t been clothes in the way, and she sought out skin, bending to nudge her forehead against Lexa’s neck and her lips against a collarbone.

‘You designed the damn thing,’ murmured Lexa into her ear, more felt than heard, head tipping back against the wall with a soft thud. ‘You know how to take it off.’

‘Do you want me to?’

‘Nothing against the dress, but -’ Lexa broke off, losing her breath for a moment as Clarke pressed a kiss into her neck. ‘I want this. I want you.’

Clarke looked up to meet the ballerina’s eyes, huge and dark in the mingled moonlight and lamplight from the next room. ‘Where?’

‘Down the hall.’

Clarke drew back reluctantly and let Lexa lead her away from the kitchen, away from the room with the shelf of pointe shoes, to the bedroom at the back of the house. In the moment it took for Lexa to kick off her shoes and flick on a bedside light, keeping her balance with the careful grace of the moderately drunk, Clarke picked out white sheets in the gloom, and city lights through a window cracked open to let in the smell of autumn smoke and approaching rainfall. Her feet ached, much as she would never admit it to a ballerina, but she decided to enjoy the sensation of being taller for once. ‘Turn around.’

She unpinned Lexa’s hair curl by curl. She could have pulled the updo apart in seconds but she found herself caught up in the rarity of having _time,_ and let herself enjoy watching the dark coils unravel wave by wave, and feeling Lexa shudder when fingers grazed skin.

‘If I’d known you were such a tease…’

Clarke stepped closer to smirk into the crook of Lexa’s neck, fitting their bodies together, and traced a stray hairpin feather-light down the dancer’s spine. ‘What would you have done?’

‘Canceled tomorrow.’

Her voice was low, heavy with intent, making Clarke forget all over again that there was no need to rush. Abandoning the last of the pins on the bedside table gave her enough hands to deal with the fastening at Lexa’s waist, and to sweep the smooth tangles of hair out of the way so she could slip the bodice off the other girl’s shoulders. Lexa reached across to help with the sleeves, but Clarke moved her hands away. ‘Let me.’

Lexa obeyed, but her stillness just heightened Clarke’s awareness of her breathing, shallow and responsive and _ready_. At the time she’d had very good artistic reasons for choosing a backless dress for the dancer, but right now all that mattered was that once she’d dealt with the sleeves, that was it - shoulders laid bare, nothing to interrupt the elegant slope from neck to arm, so much skin that Clarke didn’t know where to start. She threaded her arms between Lexa’s to rest on her waist, watching the intricate muscles of her shoulders tense at the whisper of breath. Lexa was poised on the balls of her feet, every nerve humming, unused to letting herself be led. ‘Clarke.’

‘Mmm?’ Clarke moved her hands to trace across the smooth planes of Lexa’s abdomen, partly teasing but partly distracted by the warmth beneath her fingertips and the gooseflesh that rose in their wake. Lexa’s head tipped back onto her shoulder, their heads fitting together, breath hitching in a mess of ecstasy and frustration. ‘ _Clarke_.’

Clarke let her turn around, but only so she could kiss her again. Taking her time lost its appeal in the blaze of demanding mouths, insistent hands, silent promises of more. Clarke retraced her path down Lexa’s neck, noticing somewhere in her subconscious the way Lexa shifted to give her access, head tilting, hands tangling into her hair, cradling her head. She mouthed over a collarbone and got caught by the scent of perfume in the hollow of the dancer’s throat, tracking it down to the space between her breasts, the butterfly-beat of Lexa’s heart thrumming beneath the graze of her tongue. The next discovery was the taut leanness of muscle as she went lower, Lexa arching into her mouth, and she realized she was on her knees. It felt so natural to be there that it had barely registered.

‘Wait.’

Clarke broke away, head uplifted like a worshipper, already missing the taste of skin. Lexa circled her in a sweep of dark skirts, hand brushing her head in a gentle but undeniable command to stay on the ground. Then there was a rustle as the dancer settled behind her and reached out to unfasten her dress with practised ease. It was meant to be a concealed zip, flawlessly tailored, and Clarke’s pride was wounded for a moment until she realized that Lexa must have looked for it in advance.

Lexa undid the zip, mouth warm and unhurried on Clarke’s neck, and pinched her hip gently. ‘Stand up.’

Clarke stood and let Lexa help her out of the dress as she did, feeling it fall away around her. She turned, drawn around like a magnet, and saw the dancer looking up at her, eyes dark, skin golden with lamplight - barely breathing.

There was a beat of charged stillness before they moved in unison. Lexa reached round to unfasten her own skirt, stepping out of the velvet as Clarke closed the distance between them, lace bra pressing against Lexa’s breasts. There was so much to feel that Clarke had to remind herself not to rush, afraid of missing a single inch of skin. She was too much a professional not to think for a second about the clothes on the floor, worrying whether to hang them up properly until she remembered that they wouldn’t crease, and smiled against Lexa’s mouth at the absurdity of worrying about creases when she had a topless ballerina in her arms.

‘You want to hang them up?’

‘Absolutely not.’ She angled Lexa towards the bed. ‘Can I?’

‘Come on.’

Clarke was technically the one in control, walking them over and pressing Lexa toward the mattress, but it wasn’t as though she had any choice about following. They barely broke contact. Clarke somehow managed to kick off her shoes as she leant over the dancer, and gave her a last hard kiss before turning her attentions elsewhere, mouthing over one nipple then the other. Lexa’s hands were in her hair and Clarke looked up to see her watching, eyes lidded, lips parted. She swiped her tongue from breast to hipbone, heavy, full of purpose, and Lexa let out a breath that turned into a hum that turned into a moan. Her back arched in step with Clarke’s tongue, hips canting up to meet her, needy.

 _I’ve never seen anyone move like you do_.

God, was that true.

In that moment, it was difficult to reconcile this Lexa with the one she’d thought she knew. The ballerina had been a picture on her wall, confident and commanding in the rehearsal room, the center of attention in company class, so powerful on stage that she could make three thousand people hold their breath with a single tilt of her head. But this was Clarke’s favorite Lexa of them all - not a sketch come to life but a real girl, with warmth and weight, pliant muscles and soft skin, begging to be touched with everything but words.

She hooked a finger into the waistband of Lexa’s panties. ‘Do you want me to?’

‘Please,’ breathed Lexa, her voice like velvet stroked the wrong way. ‘God, yes, please.’

It was easier than it had any right to be. Clarke almost lost her balance as she pulled off the underwear but she steadied herself with another kiss and reached down Lexa’s body, teasing through soaked folds before dipping inside her. Lexa bit down on Clarke’s lower lip at first, deepening the kiss, open-mouthed and filthy, until she had to break away to breathe and moan and plead for more. Caught up between slickness and the need for friction, the scent of Lexa’s hair and the gleam of sweat on her collarbone, Clarke couldn’t have made her wait even if she’d wanted to. She had to pull away to adjust, but when she sank back in it was with the heel of her hand pressed against Lexa’s clit. The angle was better, and she didn’t let up her rhythm, but Lexa was doing half the work for her, grinding down in a desperate search for contact.

‘Don’t stop.’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘ _Clarke…_ ’

That careful click of her tongue when she said Clarke’s name was almost gone, lost in the melting breathlessness of _nearly, nearly there_. Clarke felt the pressure of Lexa’s hands on the back of her neck, and knew there wasn’t much more to do - the dancer was strung tight, muscles taut, arching upwards with a desperation that told Clarke she was poised on the edge. A final moan, as soft and rough as raw silk, and she felt Lexa begin to flutter around her fingers; finally letting herself fall.

Her supporting wrist gave way at last, leaving her to be drawn close by arms around her neck and a heartbeat hammering against her own, and her stomach tugged with something more tender than just need as she looked down at the girl beneath her. There was something almost solemn about being trusted with this body, being allowed to break it open and put it back together. She stroked Lexa down from the rush, careful and gentle, murmuring words into her skin that she could barely form and Lexa could barely hear.

And then she was on her back. Lexa flipped them in a single fierce, lithe movement, leaning in for a bruising kiss and sliding a thigh between Clarke’s legs. The switch took Clarke by surprise, but it almost helped that there was still underwear between them; it gave the friction an extra bite, leaving her moaning into Lexa’s mouth as she raised herself up to discard her bra.

‘Lie down.’

The dancer’s hands skimmed her body like a bird above water, taking her turn to explore. Lexa needed time to catch her breath, and she spent it on slow, deep kisses and deft fingers tracing Clarke’s ribs, neck, the curve of her waist and the line of her hips. Clarke sank into it. She needed the quiet too, a moment to steady herself after the frenetic pace she’d set towards the end. She lay back and enjoyed the way her hands framed Lexa’s face and tangled into her hair. Time wound down, simmered, in the stillness of half-light and shallow breath and the shivering unpredictability of lips on skin.

But then Lexa’s thigh shifted against her, and the clock raced to catch up. Clarke pressed into her on instinct, breath stuttering almost painfully as need spiked through her, hips lifting off the bed. Lexa heard. Clarke barely had time to miss the pressure between her legs before the dancer was reaching to tug off her panties and starting a trail of kisses down her stomach, following the line of her hipbones to her inner thighs. She didn’t want to miss a second of the sight of Lexa looking up at her, or the fluid, assured way she slid one of Clarke’s legs over her shoulder, but her head dropped back involuntarily as Lexa finally licked into her. After all that time - since the cab ride, since dinner, since the moment in the dressing room, _touch me like you mean it_ \- she was drenched, and she knew it.

‘Lexa, I need -’

‘Shhh,’ murmured Lexa against her, close enough that the whisper of her breath was enough to set Clarke gasping. ‘Let me.’

The slide of Lexa against her, the warm press of her skin, the long, lazy licks and wingbeat flickers of her tongue - it felt like she was everywhere at once. The intricate muscles of the dancer’s back shifted with every movement as she learned Clarke, adjusting to each moan, each jerk of her hips, each pull of hands in her hair. Clarke could only let it happen, spreading her legs as best she could, trying to find something - _anything_ \- to focus on that might help her keep control.

‘Lexa -’

Too late to warn her, but they both knew. Clarke lost her words in the final moment of awareness before her lungs refused to breathe, her heart refused to beat, and her whole body shut down for the time it took to come on Lexa’s tongue.

It left them drained. Clarke couldn’t even think about moving, and Lexa barely made it back up the bed before she collapsed beside her. They didn’t talk, or seek reassurance, or really even think; just breathed, and touched, and watched lights from cars glow on the ceiling, and felt the breeze blow cool on burning, trembling skin.

***

Touch was one thing Lexa had never been starved of. From her first week at the company school there’d been teachers reaching out to correct her finger positioning, fix the line of her hips, tweak her shoulders the second she let her posture slide. After a while she’d come around to accepting hugs from Anya, when offered, and she’d been paired with Lincoln for so long that his touch was second nature. She was used to being looked at. Partners, massage therapists, audiences -

This was like nothing she’d ever felt before.

It was always hard to sleep after shows, walking through the steps in her mind, drunk on lights and applause and the heart-whole _rightness_ of performing. Now, even feeling her way awake, she felt more truly at ease than she had in a long time. The sex had had something to do with it, but not just the physicality of it; not just warm skin, skilful fingers, a quicksilver tongue.

More than that, it was usually lonely to come off stage.

The window was still ajar, and the city was waking. Lexa wasn’t sure what time they’d finally stumbled under the covers, shivery and exhausted, but it had been late - or early - enough to have the strange, safe quality of darkness. In the real world, dawn was when carriages turned back into pumpkins. Dawn was when things became real. Dawn was when you changed your mind. And Lexa found, entirely as expected, that dawn had changed exactly nothing. She was still exactly where she wanted to be.

Her first thought was that Clarke was almost implausibly beautiful. She’d been unmissable in torn jeans and a jacket at that first rehearsal, radiant in gold for the gala, breathtaking when it was just _her_ , just her eyes, mouth, skin, hair - and the same was true now, even in yesterday’s makeup and face squashed into the pillow. There was an effortlessness to Clarke that the ballerina, trained into self-criticism, found almost intimidating. But she wanted more.

Her second thought was that she was going to pay for not stretching out properly after the show. It would hurt more in a couple of hours, but she could already feel her muscles seizing up and knotting in protest at their inconsiderate treatment. She’d feel it next time she tried to do so much as a plié, not that she’d given that a single thought while Clarke was looking at her like she was some miraculous thing, and not that she could bring herself to do anything about it now.

 _Just this once,_ she promised herself. _Next time I’ll be more careful._

Her bag was just reachable on the floor, and she winced at the brightness of her phone as she checked the time. Eight missed calls, hundreds of social media notifications, dozens of texts.

 **Indra Shourona (06:01):** You did well last night. I was impressed.

Lexa screenshotted the message and sent it to Anya with four champagne emojis and a gif from _The Breakfast Club_.

 **Indra Shourona (06:02):** You have no rehearsals scheduled today so you can do class in your own time.

 **Indra Shourona (06:05):** But don’t skip the physical therapist.

 **Indra Shourona (06:05):** I will know.

Lexa grinned, tossed the phone down onto the rug, and went back to sleep.

***

Clarke was woken at nine-fifteen by the sound of suffering, regret and minor despair.

It took a moment for her to clear the sleep from her eyes and roll over to see Lexa, skin tan against the sheets, with her hands over her face like she was praying for the ground to swallow her up. Under normal circumstances, it would have been concerning; coming from someone she’d just slept with, it was downright alarming. Clarke raised herself onto an elbow and cleared her throat hesitantly. ‘Is everything okay?’

Lexa groaned and burrowed her fists further into her eyes. ‘I feel like I’ve been rolled up and unrolled very slowly, several times. Or run over by a freight train. My legs hurt. My back hurts. My arms hurt. I can’t even feel my feet until I try to move them, and when I do, they hurt. Does that answer your question?’

‘Is that...normal?’

‘If anything I feel slightly better than I expected.’

‘I haven’t broken you?’

‘Quite the reverse.’ Lexa made a couple of attempts to shift onto her side and finally managed it through sheer force of will, resting her head on her arm. ‘Can you believe that last night happened?’

‘Which bit?’

‘Any of it.’

Clarke remembered the petrifying darkness of the theater before the curtain went up, and the irresistible presence of the dancers on stage, and the near-physical onslaught of shouts and applause as she stood on it herself.  ‘I can see why you love it.’

‘Can you?’ Lexa’s face was calm, speculative, but her eyes were almost anxious. ‘It’s just...well. I do want you to understand. I want you to feel what I feel.’

Clarke traced a fingertip along Lexa’s collarbone as she tried to find the words to explain. ‘In some ways it was like finishing one of my shows. I forgot about all the times I struggled, or I couldn’t get the fabric to hang right, or I couldn’t make it look like what I saw in my head. I could just enjoy what we’d made. But this time I got to share it with all of you.’ She shrugged self-consciously, aware of sounding like a Hallmark card, but it was too late to stop now. ‘I have my team, and they’re wonderful, but it’s not collaborative in the same way. Last night was just...I’ve never been so sure that I’d been part of something good.’

Lexa deflated onto her back with a wince. ‘I remember my first time on that stage. They don’t usually hire that time of year, but it was the last week of season and they needed an extra girl to put on a tutu and make up the numbers in _Swan Lake_. I was fifteen. I was in school Thursday, company rehearsals Friday, onstage Saturday night.’

‘Were you scared?’

‘It was what I’d been trained for.’

‘That’s not the same thing.’

‘It happened too quickly to get scared. And once I was there…’ She sighed at the ceiling and cracked out her back. ‘I meant it, when I said you forget about the audience. The lights are in your eyes. It felt like it was a stage call and Indra would stop the music any moment. But then I heard them.’

‘The audience?’

‘You were up there last night. It’s loud.’ The lay silent for a moment, Lexa’s fingers drumming absently against the sheet. ‘Has there ever been a moment where you just knew, _this_ is it? That was mine. That was when I became who I was meant to be. Maybe not the finished article, but enough to know.’ She lifted her shoulders restlessly. ‘The audience loved it, and I loved that they loved it. Ever since it’s been this weird circular mix of doing it for them and doing it for myself, because I can’t _not_. It’s like a drug.’

Clarke could see, even from one night, how easy it would be to get hooked. ‘There are worse things to love.’

‘Sure. But I’m still glad you got to feel it too.’ Lexa rolled over more successfully, resting her head on folded arms and looking up at Clarke half-amazed. ‘I can’t believe you’re here.’

‘I’d invite you to pinch me, but I’m not sure that would achieve anything given what else your hands have been doing.’

The ballerina hummed appreciatively at the lazy dance of Clarke’s fingers down her spine. ‘It's just...I didn’t do a single thing to make this happen. I wasn't the one who picked you for this project. If Indra had decided this wasn't a good season for a premiere, or she hadn't chosen me to be in it, or the costume staff had picked another designer -’

‘I think you deserve some credit.’ Clarke laid her palm flat against the warm skin of Lexa’s back as she pressed a kiss to the dancer’s temple, nosed into her hair, let Lexa tilt her head up so their lips could meet. ‘I’ll admit to being influenced by the way you were so enticingly rude when we first met. And the fact that it would have been sheer insanity to pass up the opportunity to see these abs up close. And anyway, you’ve forgotten one thing.’

‘Mmm?’

‘Your new protege happens to be my best friend, so we’d have been safe to meet eventually.’

Lexa raised an eyebrow. ‘If Billy Streeter hadn’t set off a stink bomb in the library when I was in second grade, I would never even have started dancing.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s true. You remember my dad taught high school? The elementary school was round the corner so I’d come over and wait in the library when he had meetings. And then one day we had to evacuate courtesy of Billy, and I heard music as I was wandering the corridors trying to find somewhere to finish my book, and it was Miss Emma teaching some barre fitness class for the high school girls.’

‘Was Miss Emma your first ballet teacher?’

‘Yeah. She was good. She was the one who took me to audition at the school.’

Clarke hesitated, trying to remember the timeline. ‘That was after your dad died?’

‘I’d started missing classes. Early fostering placements are often short-term, especially for older kids, so I was moving around a lot. We couldn’t go on like before.’ She didn’t sound resentful, just matter-of-fact. ‘You know it was the first round of auditions Indra ever sat in on? She and Kane were still dancing, but they were preparing to take over. I was so star-struck I could barely tell her my name.’

‘I didn’t have you down as the star-struck type.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re way too...self-possessed.’

The dancer grinned. ‘That’s very nice of you. Tell me what happened the first time you met Anna Wintour.’

‘I walked into a print table,’ sighed Clarke. ‘Okay, fine. But do you really think you wouldn’t be dancing at all if you hadn’t been in the corridor that day?’

‘I don’t know.’ Lexa turned her head to face her, smoothing her cheek along her arm. ‘I don’t really believe in anything outside of this. I’m not big on God, or the guiding hand of fate, or manifest destiny. But I would have been so different if I hadn’t started dancing. And I don’t know what I would have -’ She bit the words off, shoulders tensing under Clarke’s hand. ‘Everything could have been different. I know that. I just can’t imagine a world where it didn’t happen.’

‘But it did,’ said Clarke quietly, ‘and you’re here.’

‘Mmm.’ She was so economical with her movements when she wasn’t dancing, each tilt of the head precisely calibrated, no more and no less than necessary. ‘What about you? How did you end up in Milan?’

‘Don’t.’ Clarke sighed. ‘Got into UCLA, withdrew after my dad died, spent a couple of weeks skipping biology and making big angry paintings in the art department, and then in the last week of school I found a leaflet about studying abroad in the trash in homeroom and thought, this looks like a valid basis for a huge life decision.’

‘Sounds like your careers advice was even worse than ours.’

‘That’s hard to believe.’

‘Our job options were ballet dancer, ballet teacher, or professional disappointment.’

‘The leaflet was there because the guidance counselor had given it to a girl who’d mentioned watching _An American In Paris_ in French class.’

‘Point taken.’ The sheets rustled as Lexa stretched, as lithe and languid as a cat. ‘You must have known you had a shot, though. I looked you up after we met. It sounds like everyone knew you had something.’

Clarke had never been sure, and had deliberately avoided thinking too hard about, how much of her success was down to talent and how much to the sheer luck of being the right person in the right place at the right time. She was good - she’d never doubted that - but she knew so many good people who _hadn’t_ made it. It never bothered her day to day in the studio, when she had scissors in her hands and fabric between her fingers; it was in the quiet moments, lying in bed or staring down a runway hours before opening, that she got the uncomfortable feeling her luck was about to run out. There was a hint of winging it which she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to shake.

Aloud, she just hummed noncommittally and lay down beside Lexa. ‘You know Vera Wang didn’t start her own line until she was forty?’ The dancer shook her head. ‘Giorgio Armani was forty-one. Carolina Herrera was forty-one. Giambattista was thirty-nine.’

‘You’ve really thought about this.’

‘Just because it makes you realize how many things have to come together for it to happen. Some people work for years before someone picks them up and gets them noticed. Some people take longer to get started in the first place. If my dad hadn’t died, I’d be starting medical school right now and I’d never have created anything.’ She pulled a stray feather out of the pillow and blew gently, sending it spinning. ‘The worst circumstances, but they ended up bringing us where we were meant to be.’

Lexa snorted  ‘If there is a god, he’s big on misdirection.’

‘Or has a British sense of humor.’

The light was streaming through the curtains now, pooling on the bed. It was going to be a perfect fall day, crisp and fresh and smelling of leaves, but the breeze coming through the open window was still mild enough to be pleasant. Clarke was torn between never moving again, spending eternity in a tangle of sheets and limbs with the most beautiful girl she’d ever seen, and seeking out coffee to relieve the last remnants of the hangover she sensed lurking somewhere at the base of her skull.

Lexa traced a fingertip up Clarke’s inner arm and smiled when she shivered. ‘Can I kiss you?’

‘You have to ask?’

‘I’ve never even bought you dinner.’

‘You made me breakfast.’

‘If I’d known this was on the line I’d have used the good china.’

‘Kiss me,’ promised Clarke, ‘and you can try again.’


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys know me by now so we'll just assume I've apologized as usual and move on ;)
> 
> (seriously I know you've been waiting several lifetimes for this chapter and I really wish I could write faster. If someone knows the secret you have to tell me. You can have my firstborn)
> 
> Also, I need input on something so please read the notes at the end! My tumblr is @southsouthwest and I have a deep need for procrastination

‘Lex, get out here!’

Lexa's eyes widened as she clamped her free hand over Clarke’s mouth and bent down to hiss urgently in her ear. ‘Don’t move. Don’t say a word. Try not to breathe.’

Clarke hadn’t noticed the front door opening, too preoccupied with what the ballerina’s other hand had been doing, but - unsurprisingly - it appeared to be Anya. Silenced, she mimed indignation with her eyebrows.

‘She has a spare key. I know, I know, I regret everything. But if we’re quiet she might go away.’

‘Lexaaaa.’ There were two ominous thuds as the intruder took off her shoes. ‘I know you’re here.’

‘She doesn’t,’ whispered Lexa, more in hope than expectation. ‘She’s guessing.’

Indignation turned into scepticism. Lexa ignored her.

‘Your keys are on the hall floor.’ Something jingled accusingly. ‘And quite a lot of gold sequins appear to have come off Clarke’s dress.’

Clarke reared up instinctively, half-offended, half-concerned. Lexa removed her hand reluctantly, mouthed ‘ _sorry_ ’, and lifted her head to reply. ‘Anya, if you’re not halfway down the stairs by the end of this sentence I swear to fucking god -’

‘I collected the early editions.’

Lexa bit off the rest of the words and looked round towards the door. This close, Clarke couldn’t miss her tell, the restless flex of her jaw before she spoke. ‘And?’

‘Come out and see for yourself.’

‘If you’re not going to tell me, you can just leave them on the table and _go away_.’

‘Ah, my sweet summer child, I think not. If I go, the papers go.’

 _Reviews_ , Clarke realized, her stomach plummeting. It was different in the fashion world - if an editor didn’t like your work, you’d know it when your clothes didn’t make it into the next issue - but theater critics didn’t hold back. Clarke remembered the previous weekend, flicking through the Sunday paper in the last burst of sunshine before the rain came, chuckling at a brutal annihilation of _Richard III: The Musical_ which no longer seemed particularly funny.

 _Painful,_ chanted her subconscious. _Baffling. No redeeming features whatsoever_.

Lexa had gone very still. ‘What do you want to do?’

The designer tried to be logical, weighing up the rival attractions of the ballerina on top of her and the prospect of being put out of her misery. ‘Anya sounds like she’s in a good mood…’

‘Yeah. She does. Okay.’ Lexa bit her lip and nodded, raising her voice again. ‘Give us five minutes.’

Clarke moved her hand in a persuasive direction.

‘Make that ten.’

 

***

 

Fifteen minutes later, alerted by a scratching at the door that Clarke fervently hoped was the cat and not the choreographer, Lexa stumbled out of bed and began to open drawers in search of clothes. Clarke rolled over languidly into the warm space, muscles loose and contented, until she caught a flash of gold out of the corner of her eye and shot upright to pick the abandoned gowns off the floor.

‘There are hangers in the wardrobe,’ offered Lexa, pointing. ‘And I’m pretty sure there’s a suit carrier around somewhere. Are they okay?’

‘Oh, they’ll be fine. Tailored clothes are sturdier than you’d expect.’ Clarke stroked the dark blue velvet tenderly, shaking out skirts and smoothing sleeves. ‘It just seems wrong to leave them lying around. It’d be like...I don’t know, letting Astro sleep on your tutu.’

‘He does, for all I know. They’re under the bed.’

‘Not really?’

‘Sure.’

‘Lexa.’

‘What? I only have two, but you have to store them flat so it’s the only place they’ll fit. Why, where do you keep your tutus?’

‘You’re funny. And you need serious education in garment care.’

‘Don’t worry, they’re in bags. Dust would ruin the aesthetic.’ Lexa held out leggings, a tank top and a ‘City Ballet’ sweater so large that it must originally have belonged to Lincoln. ‘Are these okay? I can find something slightly more suitable for a fashion professional when you leave, but these are comfortable.’

‘Perfect.’

The cat was sitting reproachfully outside the door when they opened it, and Lexa picked him up with a martyred expression. ‘ _No_ patience. _No_ consideration for others. Didn’t Auntie Anya volunteer to feed you?’

‘Auntie Anya thinks that animals belong in the wild.’ Anya, revealing herself to be human after all, was curled up in an armchair with her nose in a bucket of coffee. ‘Especially cats. They’re just freeloaders.’

Lexa peered into the empty pot. ‘You might have made some for us.’

‘I did. I drank it.’

‘You drank a liter of coffee.’

‘You were clearly very busy.’ The choreographer leaned back, eyes closed, and gestured at the spread of newsprint on the table in front of her. ‘ _Times, Observer, Daily News_. Knock yourself out.’

The ballerina studiously ignored them and went to make a refill. Clarke followed, unsure how to read her mood, risking an affectionate shoulder nudge as she reached for fresh mugs. ‘I was reliably informed you don’t care about reviews.’

‘I don’t need critics to tell me whether I’ve done a good performance.’

‘But?’

Lexa sighed, set the coffee to steep and opened a cupboard in search of cat food. ‘But, Indra is in the middle of a ten-year statistical study plotting ticket sales against star ratings, and I need to know whether to invest in body armor before I see her on Monday.’

‘So your concern is purely practical.’

‘Naturally.’

Clarke wasn’t sure if she bought that or not. She had never met anyone quite as _certain_ as Lexa, no one with as unshakeable a belief that they were in the right place, but performance was a profession where surely you couldn’t help but want to be liked. The ballerina might not be insecure, but she had to care.

Anya rustled the papers aggravatingly from the other room. Lexa rolled her eyes, exasperated and affectionate, and grinned reluctantly. ‘I hate to ruin the suspense, but she’s happy about something.’

‘She looks it. At least, I think so.’ Clarke peered discreetly over her shoulder. ‘What d’you think they’ll say?’

‘The reviews?’ Lexa paused. ‘They liked it well enough on the night, but you can never tell if that’s because they _actually_ liked it or because they were just caught up in the occasion. Especially at a gala when they’ve just spent an hour drinking and half of them have never seen a ballet before. No offence.’

‘None taken.’

‘Well then. The fact it was a gala will mean that expectations were rock bottom, which helps. And…’ She shrugged. ‘I really think it was good. I’m not a critic, and I’m obviously involved, but there was something there. There’s no reason why they shouldn’t have felt that.’

‘Because they feed on misery?’

‘Granted.’ The smell of the brewed coffee was deeply, darkly, delightfully mood-lifting. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s not the Sunday morning you had in mind.’

Clarke smirked as she pushed the mugs forward. ‘It had its moments.’

 

***

 

 **_‘A More Perfect Union At City Ballet’_ ** **(The Times, Arts Section, page 1)**

 _Gala evenings, like the film_ Black Swan _or depressingly regular accusations of elitism and irrelevance, have come to fill regular ballet-goers with despair. It is said that the audiences at such events tend toward the bejeweled, the beribboned, and - whisper it - the uninformed. Unsuspecting socialites, celebrities, and the glamorous variety of politicians are lured into the theater by the temptations of the red carpet, there to be presented with watered-down fare designed to lull them into a false but lucrative sense of belonging, while genuine fans are exiled to the ballet-less wasteland. Their only consolation, as they stand with noses pressed against the glass and barely a pointe shoe in sight, is that the good stuff will be on in Week Three._

_Fortunately - or, for those in the wasteland, unfortunately - City Ballet’s fall season opened Saturday with a programme which heralded good things to come on every level._

_First, it’s always interesting to get a look at the new crop of dancers, who this year were uniformly promising and sometimes more. It was impossible not to be drawn by nineteen-year-old Octavia Blake, the sole newcomer not to come from the company’s affiliate ballet school, a late casting in Jerome Robbins’_ Interplay _who commanded attention with her buoyant confidence and the joyous whirl of her movements. Her technique is perhaps not as secure as that of her fellow apprentices, but that will come. The things that really matter - showmanship, musicality, the ability to fill the stage - are already there._

 

***

 

Bellamy, Clarke guessed, had bought up the entire stock of the  _Times_ before the ink was dry and spontaneously combusted with pride shortly afterwards.

 

***

 

_As admirable as the gala’s opening pieces were, there was palpable impatience for the last performance on the bill. Rarely has a new ballet been so long-awaited in so many ways: as a new commission from Anya Hunter, as the costume debut of garlanded fashion designer Clarke Griffin, and the return from injury of the company’s star ballerina. None of them disappointed._

_In some ways, Griffin, however highly praised in the fashion industry, had the hardest job. From a designer’s point of view, ballet costumes are about as different from high fashion as it is possible to get. Instead of being worn standing up, walking and - at a push - sitting down, a ballet costume needs to withstand twirling, partnering, and flying through the air. No intricate prints, no exquisite beadwork, no delicate embroidery; the designer’s arsenal is sorely depleted when the closest observer will always be at least thirty feet away._

_For a newcomer to the world of theater, Ms Griffin shows an impressive ability to cut through all such extraneous detail. Her costumes were clean, simple, focused, showing off the dancers rather than hiding them. The starting-point might have been conventional - tulle on a ballerina is hardly groundbreaking - but the result was perfectly in harmony with the staging and the demands of the choreography. And, needless to say, beautiful in itself. Griffin can be proud, and it is to be hoped that her services are engaged again._

 

***

 

‘Ms Griffin’ sat back from the newspaper and blinked.

It was almost startling, receiving such uncomplicated validation. Clarke was used to nothing ever quite being good enough - for her mom, who’d expected a 4.0 and a college scholarship; for her teachers in Italy, _ancora, subito, subito,_ evangelists for the perfect seam and the ideal fall of fabric; most of all for herself, always self-critical, always wondering how much more she could do.

_Clean. Simple. Focused. Beautiful._

It was just a random critic, not even a fashion journalist, but it was so unexpected that she took it to heart anyway. Deep down, she realized, she’d expected to fail. It wasn’t that she lacked talent, or that she didn’t know it. It was just the price of rising so high so young, carried to the top on wings instead of a ladder, every project making her more and more aware of how much she didn’t know. As much as she’d want to tinker with the costumes next time she got the chance, as much as _she_ would never be satisfied, it wasn’t just about her. This time it was bigger than that, and she’d done her part.

Lexa was cross-legged on the floor next to her, absorbed in the _Daily News_ , face unreadable.

 

***

 

 _There is particularly good reason to be grateful that the dancing was given space to shine, because Ms Hunter, 27, has managed to turn a tragically abbreviated company career into a remarkable choreographic resurgence. Her versatility is striking: from the musical_ Wise Children, _which opened last week to rave reviews, to this deeply affecting new ballet for just two dancers. It’s not sentimental; Hunter doesn’t do that. Nor, in an art form dominated by the_ pas de deux, _is the idea of a two-person ballet particularly unusual. What sets Hunter’s effort apart is the sheer range of emotions - from ambivalence, to compromise, to the joy of possibility - which it explores._

 _The piece opens on solo ballerina Lexa Woods - more about her later - in a state of lonely independence. She is clearly capable, purposeful, authoritative, but incomplete. There is nothing obviously_ lacking _about her, but she is still searching for something more. It’s a difficult thing to convey, especially compared to the more straightforward despair of a Juliet or the heartbreak of an Odette, but Woods manages it._

 _Once her partner Lincoln Eastman arrives, it is clear that he is another independent agent. They spend a lot of time literally dancing around each other, excellently, before they both decide to accept what each other is offering. Even then, though, their_ pas de deux _is unusually and visibly cooperative. Too much modern ballet involves quasi-gymnastic feats of partnering in which ballerinas are spun around heads, lifted in increasingly tortured positions, and even - David Dawson’s dreadful_ The Human Seasons _springs unpleasantly to mind - dragged around the floor. By contrast, both characters display a fascinating mix of agency and dependency. Theirs is a partnership based not on necessity, but on choice. Choreographic ideas which had seemed complete on their own are suddenly improved, and the result is that while their coming together may be inevitable, it feels_ earned _._

_It is sometimes said that truly great choreography transcends its dancers, but this piece, on this night, was lent a special significance by its casting. Woods has been missing from the stage since sustaining a debilitating ankle injury in the last fall season, and her return is good news for the company, for the city, and for the ballet world. Eastman was promoted to principal dancer during his regular partner’s year of absence, and has delivered many fine performances without her, but it is nothing less than a joy - for us and, evidently, for them - to have them both back on stage together where they belong._

_Woods and Eastman have been partnering each other for six years, longer if you count their time together at school, and they share the kind of absolute trust that allows them to do more than merely perform steps. Eastman can throw her higher than he would ever throw another ballerina, because he knows she will be exactly where he needs her to be to catch her. Woods doesn’t tense up or second-guess herself, even while flying through the air, because she knows he won’t let her fall. It’s fascinating to watch._

_That is not to say that everything is as it was before. Eastman has always been a wonderful partner, but his assurance as a solo dancer has grown; he is now remarkable as well as reliable. The difference in Woods is even more marked. Her dancing before her injury, though in some ways more brilliant than ever, had a brittle quality, an almost calculated determination to test the limits of her extraordinary talent. This ballerina, this time, is obviously_ happy _to be dancing; something has given her the freedom to enjoy how much she can do rather than exploiting it. Her technique is as flawless as ever, but it all but goes unnoticed in the sheer naturalness of her movement. Each step leads to the next as smooth as silk. It’s as though the music has a layer only she can hear, some kind of universal background hum, but she makes us all listen._

_This was a night where everything came together - choreography, design, and dance - and the standing ovation at the end was not applause so much as pure affection._

 

***

 

‘Anya,’ said Lexa quietly as she turned a page, ‘have you read these?’

‘Yeah.’ Anya’s voice was suddenly soft. ‘Yeah, I read them.’

The ballerina sat back on her heels. ‘They liked it.’

‘Yes, genius, they liked it. You know me, I think critics are talking out of their asses about ninety-five percent of the time. But I think we might have found the one review where they got everything right.’

‘After all, they were so nice about you.’

‘Obviously. But they were right about you too, you know. You _are_ better than you were before. You didn’t let yourself hold back, or freeze up, or get scared.’ Anya abandoned her coffee and slid to the floor beside them, slinging an arm around Lexa’s neck. ‘I’m so proud of you, kid. You killed it. And Clarke wasn’t totally terrible either.’

‘Why thank you, Anya, I have deep professional respect for you too.’

‘Play nicely,’ said Lexa severely, reaching for the next review. ‘Have you shown these to Linc?’

‘Next stop. I was this close to showing up at Indra’s but she’ll have seen them already.’

‘I’m sure she’s too busy baking cookies and watching the morning shows to give them a second thought.’

‘Seen them, catalogued them, spent an hour on the phone discussing them with Kane, sent marked copies to the editors…’

‘You make her sound crazy.’

‘She _is_ crazy.’

‘You’re all crazy,’ pointed out Clarke kindly, ‘hence your transcendent brilliance.’

‘You may be right there.’ Anya squeezed Lexa’s shoulder as she stood. ‘Keep those ones, I have copies, and I've booked for dinner at eight. Mondello. I’m buying.’ She paused for a fraction of a second as though Lexa had signalled something with her eyebrows. ‘Both of you, obviously. At least, I know _you_ don’t have a social life, but I hope Clarke can make it too?’

Clarke raised her mug. ‘Dancers don’t have a monopoly on sacrificing themselves for their art.’

‘I don’t know, I think you’re both pretty good at balancing business with pleasure. Last night, for example. _Yes_ , I’m leaving.’ Lexa had thrown _The Complete Guide to Sports Massage_ expertly at the choreographer’s head. ‘See you later. Take a break. You both deserve it.’

They sat in silence awhile longer after she left, trading papers. The _Daily News_ couldn’t get enough of them. The _Observer_ called them the artistic highlight of the year. At some point Lexa got up with a crack of joints to get more coffee, and Clarke was sure she heard a sigh of relief, the sound of tension leaving strong shoulders.

‘Here.’ The ballerina put a fresh mug into Clarke’s hands as she sat back down beside her, leaning against Anya’s newly vacated chair. ‘So. What did you think?’

‘I think we’re going to be Indra’s favorite people.’

Lexa grinned. ‘She likes you.’

‘I wish she’d consider showing it in some way other than making me feel incredibly nervous all of the time.’

‘She does, really. She likes that you get things done. We were always told that our job was just to go into a room and make a ballet. No fuss.’ Lexa sounded like she couldn’t decide whether to be admiring or amused. ‘It’s the sort of thing artistic directors _can_ say when they’ve been wearing flat shoes for ten years, but that’s the way to her heart. You’re in.’

Clarke found she was relieved to hear her say it. She’d have been sorry not to go back to the theater, not to see the dancers or the costume staff or even Melissa the extremely hot intern; but if she was going to be part of that world, she needed to know her place in it. ‘So what happens now?’

The dancer hummed consideringly and stretched out her legs. ‘Gala program is on for a while in rep with the Balanchine mixed bill, so I’ll be on twice or three times a week in those, then a few nights of the Wheeldon, and _Romeo_ in November. At the same time as _Nutcracker_ rehearsals. It’s a lot, but Indra and Kane are terrified of being boring.’ She broke off and smiled ruefully, making a face as she ran a hand through her hair. ‘Sorry. Once season starts, the schedule is all you think about. But I’m not sure that’s what you meant.’

It wasn’t, but Clarke couldn’t help but grin. ‘Where do I get tickets?’

Lexa hesitated. ‘If you really mean that -’

‘I do.’ She did. She wanted every moment she could get. ‘You look so...complete when you dance. I want to see everything.’

‘Clarke, I would get you tickets to anything you wanted. I’d love to.’ Lexa put down her coffee and sat forward, hands laced in front of her, clear-eyed and serious. ‘I can’t make you the kind of promises you deserve.’

‘I know that.’

‘I used to think I could, but I can’t.’

Clarke reached out and kissed her, half to reassure, half because she couldn’t help it - and she took her time, because for once they had plenty of it, and because in a relationship made up of moments, each one had to count. She concentrated on the way each one made her feel, memorizing the perfect fit of her hand around Lexa’s jaw, smoothing out the last traces of hairspray in the ballerina’s hair as she finally pulled away. ‘I wanted you because of who you are. Everything that you are. And that doesn’t...I mean, I would still want you if you quit dancing tomorrow. But I understand how important it is to you.’

‘This is important to me too.’ Lexa hesitated for a second, then held out a lovely, long-fingered hand, palm upwards. It was so like her, to ask for trust not in words but with a single eloquent gesture, carefully considered and and utterly sincere. ‘I told Octavia that I’d try. I can promise you that much. And if it’s the only promise I can make, I think it’s a good one.’

‘Good enough for me.’

With anyone else, anywhere else, Clarke would have laughed at how serious it all sounded. But here and now, in their own little corner of the crowded city, as she took the hand of a girl who lived in front of an audience and still meant everything she did, she couldn’t have taken it lightly even if she’d wanted to.

 

***

 

‘As much as this has been a great morning,’ sighed Lexa an hour later, sinking back against the pillows and looking for all the world as though the interlude with Anya had never happened, ‘I need to do something about the fact that my muscles feel like cement. And then I should do a barre. And have a shower. And go to physical therapy. And sew a few shoes for next week.’ She smiled wryly. ‘See what I mean? It never ends.’

Clarke pouted in mock indignation. ‘I’m busy too. I do things.’

‘When was the last time you had to go to the physical therapist?’

‘When was the last time you picked up a needle and - oh, wait, you got me there.’ The designer reached over and tried to sift her phone out of the pile of discarded clothes beside the bed, then immediately wished she hadn’t. ‘I might not plan on ever doing anything that might risk pulling a muscle, but I promise you, if you had three hundred and seventy eight emails to read you’d take the physical therapist any day.’

‘Is that a typical Sunday in the glamorous fashion industry?’

‘More or less.’

Lexa propped herself on an elbow, sheets tangled temptingly somewhere around her hips. ‘Stick around, if you like. If you don’t have anywhere else to be. I’ll need the floorspace opposite the couch, but I do barre with headphones in so it wouldn’t be loud, and I can promise you all the coffee you can drink.’

Clarke rolled to face her, perfectly well aware that she was going to say yes. She knew she’d have to go back later, to change, and to deal with the gala gowns properly, and there were calls she had to make and materials she had to prepare for meetings and viewings next week - but she didn’t _want_ to go anywhere. She wanted to sit among the books and the pointe shoes, drink her coffee from the yellow china mugs, try to make friends with the cat. She wanted Lexa. She wanted more.

But it still scared her a little bit to realize how _much_ she wanted it, scared and thrilled her, and she wondered if she could make light of the little things. When they were both loose-limbed and warm and exhausted, and no one was making promises. ‘Well, that depends.’

‘On what?’

‘Do you have wifi?’

‘I’m a dancer, not a hermit.’

 _Lucky for me_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed that I’ve updated the chapter count in the header to show that there’s only one to go :( I’ve decided I only need one more chapter to wrap up this stage of the story, which is actually really gutting for me because I’ve loved writing it so much and it’ll be weird to think that it’s finished.
> 
> HOWEVER 
> 
> I do have a sequel mapped out in my head (crisis at the company, will Lexa save the day, it genuinely came to me in a dream so I’m still fleshing out the details) which I will aim to get started on afterwards if you’re interested in reading more from this AU? Please do get in touch if there are any scenes you’d like to see or things you’d like to know, it genuinely does help me and I hope you enjoy it too! 
> 
> Thank you so much again for reading, I love you all and I’ll try really hard not to leave you hanging so long next time...


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I'm saying this, but 1. I'm updating less than a month before the last chapter (by one day, but it still counts) and... 2. This is the end of the road. I genuinely can't believe it. This fic has been ticking away in the back of my mind for over a year and a half and I'm both really happy and really sad to be completing it. 
> 
> On that note, please read the end note! Important. 
> 
> Other than that, just read and enjoy!

‘So.’ Clarke cleared her throat as she settled on the couch with Lexa’s laptop and another mug of coffee. ‘How does this work?’

‘See the little button at the top right of the keyboard? If you press it the pretty lights will come on.’

‘No, I mean...am I allowed to I talk to you? Or is this like your meditative time?’

‘I actually need absolute silence or my chakras won’t align and I might sprain a feng shui.’

‘Gosh, you just get funnier and funnier as the day goes on.’

‘Exponentially.’

‘Mm.’ Clarke was silent as Lexa lay down on a yoga mat and began her usual pre-class warm-ups; just little stretches at first, waking up muscles for the day, or in this case trying to persuade them to cooperate. ‘Would you mind if I drew you?’

‘You have to ask?’

‘Some people don’t like it. Though I’ve never actually asked anyone who was unshowered and about to work out.’

‘Well goodness, that’s so charming I couldn’t possibly say no.’ Lexa craned her head and gestured at the big wooden cabinet. ‘There’s paper over there, and I think I owned a pencil once.’

‘Thanks for the offer, but I actually need canvas and freshly-mined graphite.’

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ said Lexa sincerely, not really meaning to say it out loud and not really minding that she had. ‘I was afraid that after the gala this would all just...stop. You’d go back to your world and I’d go back to mine.’

‘There’s a young adult novel in there somewhere,’ teased Clarke, but her eyes were soft.

‘I mean it. I know it’s a lot to take in. You don’t just get me, you get some unholy package deal which comes with late nights and bonus choreographers walking in at all hours, and whatever this is that I’m doing right now.’ Lexa had to smile as it dawned on her how much time she spent there on the floor, decompressing, stretching, collapsing. Definitely not normal. ‘It’s new for you, and some of it is just objectively weird, so. Thanks.’

‘If I get you, I’d say that’s pretty good compensation for Anya disturbing my beauty sleep.’ The designer glanced at her innocently over the top of the paper she’d retrieved from the cupboard. ‘Although if you’d told me you’d be spending the morning on your back, I’d have had something else in mind.’

‘Temptress.’

Lexa didn’t have a permanent setup or a folding barre, preferring to take class at the company rather than do full warmups at home, but she had thoroughly confused the staff at the local furniture auction by testing chairs not only by sitting on them, but by turning them round to check the height for pliés. Clarke didn’t bat an eyelid when she dragged one out and positioned it side-central in the space, having evidently got at least semi-used to dancers and their oddities. ‘You don’t need me to move?’

‘You’re fine. I turn to work the other leg, so the lateral movement’s all to this side.’ Lexa grimaced dramatically as she untangled her earbuds. ‘If I get that far.’

As much as she liked to complain, and as much as she felt the tiredness in her muscles and the soreness in her ankle, the really bad days were few and far between. The comfortable rhythms of warmups and class were enough to soothe most things; she wondered sometimes if the familiarity would ever turn to boredom, but for now, it felt necessary. Nothing mattered but making each movement as perfect as possible. It was important, but it wasn’t _complicated._ After a week of tension, nerves, anger, desire, release, it felt like coming up for air.

 _Neat fifths._ _Don’t over-cross. Stretch the supporting knee. Keep the relevés bright. Turn out._ Even without a mirror, corrections came to mind automatically, ingrained from years of teachers. She had planned for one great love in her life, and that was her job, and it had been good to her - but the world was widening around her, casting her adrift, and she couldn’t even be mad about it. The life that had stretched out before her for as long as she could remember, measured in classes and opening nights and new roles, had been thrown off course. Lexa had always been driven by her inner certainty that that was the life she was meant to have, but suddenly she was less certain than ever and _happy_ about it.

She wondered if that said more about her or about Clarke.

A few flexibility stretches to wind down, a minute on each split, and she’d been so in her own head that it was almost a surprise to take the earbuds out and hear the tapping of the keyboard beside her. ‘How are the emails?’

‘Oh. Endless. Almost all of them are totally irrelevant, but you can’t ignore them because somewhere in the pile of shit there’s usually a diamond. An Anna Wintour-shaped diamond. Or rather her assistant. Her third assistant. _I_ need a new assistant. But I’m lucky to have an assistant at all at this point, and I can’t afford anyone else right now, so here I am trawling through the shit when I could be doing literally anything else. Or any _one_ else.’ Clarke closed the lid of the laptop and rubbed her eyes. ‘Sorry, I make terrible jokes when I have to do admin. How’s contorting your body into impossible shapes?’

‘It helps, it really does. Untangles the knots.’ Lexa rolled out of the split with a sigh. ‘Hungry work, though. You hungry?’

‘Starving.’

Clarke followed her into the kitchen and scooped the cat off the countertop. ‘Who’s a sweet boy? You’re a sweet boy. Yes you are.’

‘You’ve never had a pet, have you.’

‘Never. My mom is a chief of surgery and my dad ran a business, and I did all the extracurriculars under the sun. We would have killed anything needier than a cactus.’ She hitched herself up onto the windowsill, Astro still perched in her arms with what his owner could have sworn was a long-suffering expression. ‘I finished drawing you, by the way.’

‘Do I get to see?’

‘It’s by the laptop.’

Lexa set the chicken grilling and wandered over to retrieve it, shaking out the aches in her legs. ‘Wow.’

‘D’you like it?’

It was a head and shoulders fragment, focused on the long, proud lines of neck and jaw, eyes and cheekbones. ‘It’s good. You’re _really_ good.’

‘It’s my job.’

‘No, I mean...this is amazing.’ Lexa shook her head and smiled as she handed it back to the artist. ‘Although, seriously? I do all these fancy moves for you and you show me a picture of my face?’

‘I like your face.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘It was more your expression. All those...I mean, I won’t even try those fancy French names you use, but you did all those movements and your face barely changed. You were so intent. I wanted to capture that.’ The designer studied the page thoughtfully. ‘I don’t draw people very often for work. Just bodies. It was nice going back to it.’

Lexa stepped away from the stovetop and kissed her, because she could, because there was a beautiful girl in her kitchen on a Sunday morning and it would have been a crime not to, and Clarke kissed her back because the world was good and somewhere along the line she’d struck lucky. There was no particular reason for any of it; it just _was_ , and all the better for it.

Trapped between them, Astro yowled and made an energetic bid for freedom. Lexa pulled back exasperatedly. ‘You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?’

‘That’s not what people usually say after they kiss me.’

‘I’ll try to remember that.’ Lexa glared at the offending animal, now sitting placidly in front of the fridge and therefore precisely underfoot as she went to open it. ‘I swear he does it on purpose. Cats _know._ Could you grab plates? Behind you.’

‘I don’t think you’re a pain in the ass,’ said Clarke loyally as she passed the cat, collecting crockery. Astro ignored her.

‘Wait til he tries to steal your chicken.’

 

***

 

‘So you’ve done your barre,’ nodded Clarke, mentally ticking off items. ‘You’ve made me a salad that had no business tasting that good given the fat content. Or lack thereof. What else do ballerinas do at the weekend?’

Lexa stretched, joints clicking like a typewriter, and tried to remember her to-do list. ‘Shoes. Bath. Physical therapist. Nap. Dinner.’

‘Did you say _nap?_ ’

‘Highly underrated. Join me.’

‘I refuse to go to bed with you just to _nap._ ’

‘I’m clingy when I’m tired.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ Clarke looked at her watch; still her gold evening watch from the night before, absurd under the tattered cuff of Lexa’s - or possibly Lincoln’s - sweater. ‘I’ll need to go back to mine before dinner, but I could stay till then? If I’m in the way -’

‘Clarke.’

‘- you’ll tell me, yeah, okay. But you will tell me, right?’ The designer put her empty plate on the table and took Lexa’s hand, suddenly serious. ‘I’m conscious of it, you know? I mean, how could I not be given everything that happened last week. And if we’re going to find a way to make this work, I need to know that you’ll tell me what you need.’

‘It’s not complicated really. Boring, even. Eat, sleep, rinse, repeat,’ Lexa tried, lacing their fingers together carefully as she looked for the next words. ‘But it does come with odd hours and times when I just need to crash, and I’m not...used to people needing things from me. Things that aren’t work. And I can’t fix that with silence.’

‘So we talk?’

‘We talk.’

‘I can do that.’

The shoe shelf already looked comparatively bare by the end of rehearsal period. Lexa picked out the five pairs nearest the end and did the easy things first - testing the balance, stepping on the box, bending the shank - before sitting down with her kit and the shoes ranged around her.

‘You guys are brutal with your shoes,’ observed Clarke disapprovingly from behind the laptop.

‘Keep watching. There’s fire later.’

‘I watched Octavia do some of hers, the night I ran into you on the stairs, and she slammed them in the door hinge.’

‘That feels like about a hundred years ago.’ _Monday? Tuesday. Less than a week._ ‘Right. That was the morning we did a couple together before class.’

‘She really appreciated that.’

Lexa shrugged, self-conscious, and concentrated on measuring out the ribbons. ‘That’s the weird thing about shoes, though. No one ever really teaches you how to do them. It’s all word-of-mouth, and trying stuff out, and asking older girls what works for them.’

Clarke picked up a shoe and turned it over experimentally, running a finger around the inside toe. ‘And you’ve done this to every shoe you’ve ever worn?’

‘Every one.’

‘So how many times is that?’

‘I’m not even going to go there. Thousands.’

‘Genuinely?’

‘I don’t want to think about it.’

‘You’ve probably done more hand-sewing than I have.’

‘Believe me, it sometimes feels like I’ve done more hand-sewing than anyone in the world, ever.’

‘Sometimes when I close my eyes all I can see is sequins.’

Lexa grinned and retrieved her lighter from the darkest corner of the bag where it always managed to sink. ‘I started pointe when I was ten, and since I’ve been in the company I’ve gotten through five or six pairs a week. So that’s...easily upwards of three thousand shoes.’

‘Holy shit, Lexa.’

‘This is why I try not to think about it.’ They were silent for a moment as Lexa concentrated, methodically burning each end of the ribbons and elastics to stop them fraying. ‘I did all my growing early, so when I got my first shoes I was sure they made me nearly as tall as my dad. Which wasn’t even slightly true.’

Clarke put her smile into her voice. ‘I bet.’

‘He was almost a foot taller than I am even now. I used to be terrified that I’d end up too tall for ballet, but I guess I must have taken after my mom.’ There was no reason why she would ever have asked her dad how tall her mother had been, but there was still a twinge of guilt every time she realized something that she didn’t know. One of the many things she didn’t know. ‘What about you? What was the first thing you ever sewed?’

‘I made a dress for my teddy bear out of the Christmas tablecloth.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Mom was pissed.’

‘I can believe it.’

‘She’d just bought me a new red dress for Christmas and I wanted my teddy to have one too, so I got the scissors and...in hindsight, mistakes were made.’

She was passionate and impulsive and perfect and Lexa knew she was going to fall hard, if she hadn’t already. ‘But look where it’s got you.’

‘Yeah, well. I’m pretty sure my mom thinks I’m still at the tablecloth stage.’ Clarke shrugged, resigned. Lexa rolled up the ribbons into the shoes, packing three pairs into the bag. ‘Is that it? Are you done?’

‘Not even close. I need to bribe my muscles with a bath so I’ll sew these four while I’m soaking, and then I have to head to PT.’

‘You sew your shoes _in the bath?’_

‘Depends how many hours there are in the day. I do the rest on the subway.’

‘The fashion world has a lot to teach ballerinas about safe working practices.’

‘You’ll have to show me sometime.’

‘Gladly.’ The designer looked up at her, smiling with something between disbelief and amusement. ‘Anything I can do while you’re gone?’

‘No, you’re fine. Wait, yes -’ Lexa pointed out one of the cupboards at the bottom of the cabinet. ‘Pick out, say...six you like out of there.’

‘Six what?’

‘You’ll see.’

 

***

 

There was something slightly off-kilter about being at the theater during a performance without actually performing. The backstage area would be teeming, but the studios were eerily silent, dancers in their own little worlds as they warmed up for entrances later on in the programme, earbuds in, stage makeup on. Lexa might as well have been invisible. It always gave her the sense of being a shadow or a ghost - there but not there, caught out of time.

Even the physical therapist’s office, usually crammed to bursting with achy dancers and their hypochondria and their genuine issues, was quiet during a matinee. Being the exact opposite of a hypochondriac, Lexa did not appreciate the undivided attention.

‘Have you danced on it today?’

‘Not really. Barre, but no center.’

‘It’s stickier than I was expecting. Does this hurt?’

‘Yes.’

‘How badly?’

‘Four.’

‘What about during the show last night?’

‘I didn’t notice it. It was sore when I came offstage, but so was everything else.’

‘And then they made you go to that ridiculous dinner with no time to warm down properly.’ Denise rotated Lexa’s ankle carefully. She was Lexa’s favorite member of the healthcare team: business-like, effective, sympathetic but unimpressed by excuses. ‘See, here. The usual problem. Lexa, you need to be so careful about warming it up and then not letting it get stiff once you’re done. And by careful I mean religious.’

‘I know,’ sighed Lexa, truthfully. ‘Last night was just...yeah. Unusual.’ _Because of the dinner. Because of the alcohol. Because I got fewer hours sleep than I did orgasms. But I’m not going to tell you that._

‘Good. Be a shame to let it slide just when we’ve got you back.’ Denise got to work briskly. Lexa gritted her teeth. ‘I’ll mobilize all these bones in your foot for now and you’ll be good to go tomorrow, but it’s really up to you. Keep the peroneal muscles strong, look after it, don’t do dumb things. Simple as.’

She was thankful to escape to the principals’ corridor, where the quiet was more familiar. If it weren’t for the muffled music behind a couple of the doors, she could have believed that no one was around, but that was often the case; few dancers were chatty in the run-up to performing. Lexa pushed open her own door and stopped dead as she was hit by the smell of flowers.

‘Ah.’

Nina, as promised, had delivered the rest of the flowers to what had once been Lexa’s dressing-room and could now have done reasonable business as a pop-up florist. The irises from Lincoln’s parents were by the mirror where she’d left them, but the other bouquets the runner had brought up the day before were now lost in the crowd. White roses from the chairman of the board. Lilies from a choreographer she’d worked with the previous summer. Oranges and pinks and yellows from the kids in her Friday class. Hydrangeas, dahlias, carnations, chrysanthemums, delphiniums, wish after good wish from people she’d never met who had still thought of her and were pleased to see her back.

_Good luck for tonight._

_(Don’t) Break a leg!_

_I love watching you dance and I hope you like these_.

Lexa sat down limply in the free space beside the door and hugged her knees. Some things about dancing would always be strange to her. On the best days it was like breathing, so natural and so necessary that everything fell into place; the rest of the time, she wasn’t always sure where the need came from. Sometimes it was the promise of an audience that drove her, sometimes the near-obsessive compulsion to self-correct and self-perfect, sometimes an impulse so innate that she would never understand it. But then people sent her flowers, and it was enough to know that she had made them _happy._

The framed sketch was still propped up against the mirror where she’d left it. Lexa got gingerly to her feet and smoothed out the brown paper, turning the picture over to wrap it up, and saw a white card tucked behind the hanging cord.

_Lexa_

_For after the gala._

_Clarke_

Lexa looked at the flowers, and at the sketch, and back at the flowers, and started plotting the route downstairs that involved the fewest doors.

 

***

 

‘Holy shit.’ Clarke opened the door to what must at first glance have seemed like a walking paradise garden. ‘Did you get the subway with those?!’

‘Cab. I like to think I’m some kind of myth among the drivers.’

‘Crazy flower lady?’

‘Something like that.’ Lexa manoeuvred her way carefully into the hallway, bouquets balanced precariously in her arms, and let Clarke take the two which looked most likely to fall. ‘Did you look in the cupboard?’

 _‘Oh_ yes. Yes, I did.’ The designer pointed to the six glass vases assembled on the coffee table. ‘You are aware you have fifteen vases in your apartment? I counted. There were twelve in that cupboard and then I went to look for more coffee and found one on the top shelf behind the wine glasses, and then I spilled the coffee on the countertop and I found two more under the sink.’

‘I’m not a hoarder, I promise. I’ve just had a lot of birthdays.’

‘I never thought you were, it’s just…’ The designer gestured at the couchful of blooms. ‘What’s the most you’ve ever gotten at once?’

‘For one show? I don’t know. Twenty-five, maybe, for a big debut.’

‘Twenty-five.’ Clarke blinked once, then twice, as though she was trying to imagine what twenty-five bouquets on that scale would even look like. ‘Who sends them?’

Lexa picked out a couple of the cards to show her. ‘Sponsors. Other dancers. Lincoln’s parents send one at the start of every season. The kids I teach on Fridays usually team up to get me something. And anyone can get flowers delivered to the stage door so often they’re just from fans.’

‘What do you _do_ with them all?’

‘Keep some, hence the vases. Otherwise I usually give a couple to my partner if he’s running low, and then the rest to the other dancers who were in the piece. One for the lady at the stage door. Orchestra break room. You know the kind of thing.’

‘That sounds kind of fun.’

‘It is. The secret flower-distributor.’ Lexa rifled through the kitchen in search of secateurs and finally found them in the cutlery drawer. ‘If I get some mid-run I sometimes send them to critics who gave bad reviews. Anonymously, to mess with their heads.’

‘You can mess with my head any day of the week if that’s what it involves.’

‘Critics are very highly-strung. Anya sends voodoo dolls.’

‘It says a lot about Anya that I’m not totally sure you’re joking.’

‘Girl has a reputation to maintain. If I snip, do you want to arrange?’

‘If by ‘arrange’ you mean put in vases…’

‘That’ll do for now.’ Stalk-ends scattered over the countertop. The cat leaped up to investigate, sniffed them, and retreated disappointed. ‘What happened to the flowers you got given?’

Clarke looked momentarily startled. It had only been the night before, but it was amazing how dreamlike the stage could feel in the cold light of day. ‘I think I gave them to Melissa before the dinner. You know, the unbelievably gorgeous intern who does the social media?’

‘Unbelievably gorgeous...Yeah, I think I might have noticed her once or twice.’

‘So enthusiastic it makes you want to wrap her up and protect her from all life’s disappointments?’

‘That’s her.’

‘Well, I saw her when we came offstage, after you and Lincoln had gone to change, and I wanted to say thank you. She was the first person I met at the company, pretty much, and she just seemed to pop up like magic whenever I didn’t know where to go, or she thought I needed protecting from Indra. So I basically threw the flowers at her.’ The designer shook her head disbelievingly. ‘It feels like weeks ago.’

‘It always does. It doesn’t feel fully real once it’s over. Just like none of this matters when you’re performing.’ Lexa had always found it supremely natural to exist on stage; it had been much harder to work herself out in the real world. ‘Maybe that’s the secret of our indestructible good looks. We don’t actually age while the lights are up.’

‘That would explain a lot.’ Clarke put the first vase on the kitchen windowsill - blue delphiniums and green-scented hyacinths, _From the teaching faculty, with love_ \- and came back to stand beside Lexa, smoothing back the strands of hair the wind had blown out of her bun. ‘This feels real to me.’

And Lexa kissed her, and the hyacinths bloomed, and the future was full of flowers.

 

***

 

Mondello was the kind of Italian restaurant where the service was so casual it could only be authentic. It was half an hour before Lexa managed to physically grab someone to take their order, upon which they found themselves asking for practically everything on the menu because to do otherwise would have hurt the chef’s feelings.

‘I can’t,’ said Clarke in dread as her garlic bread starter was placed in front of her, jewel-bright with olive oil and enough to feed an elementary school for a week. ‘I simply cannot.’

‘Back yourself,’ advised Octavia through a mouthful of mozzarella. ‘You deserve it.’

‘It’s not that I don’t _want_ to, it’s that I might rupture my stomach.’

‘Back your stomach.’

‘That’s all very well if you’ve just performed for two hours and burned a million calories.’

‘Legit. I am starving.’ The precise words were difficult to decipher through the mozzarella - _mm mfff mfffing_ \- but the sentiment was obvious. ‘Kane was giving corrections afterwards and all I could think about was pasta.’

Lexa grinned. ‘The first time we did the leads in _Swan Lake_ I ate a cheeseburger so quickly that Linc thought it hadn’t arrived and ordered me a replacement.’

‘Which you also ate.’

‘We shared it.’

‘While you ate my fries.’

‘That was different.’

‘Sneakily, one by one.’

‘Anya, Lincoln’s being mean to me.’

Anya took a very large gulp of wine. ‘Sometimes it’s literally like the last ten years never happened.’

Clarke could have felt like an interloper, sitting there with the three old friends while they reminisced and argued and snarked at each other to disguise how much they cared, but it seemed to work. She talked plenty, and listened more. Lexa and Lincoln bickered like siblings, fiercely fond, and it was fascinating; for all the ballerina usually weighed her words, honest but thoughtful, she was scintillating once she was warmed up and had a glass of wine in her hand. It was the first time Clarke had ever seen Anya truly relaxed, lounging in her chair like an empress, smiling even as she rolled her eyes at the others. And Octavia was glowing. It was as though joining the company had un-snuffed the candle, unclipped her wings, kicked down the door, and she was finally the way she was meant to be.

Somehow they managed to eat their way through acres of pizza, miles of spaghetti and enough vegetables to make even a dancer admit defeat, before Anya ordered another bottle of wine and leaned forwards. ‘Okay. Let’s do the thing properly.’

‘Since you’re buying.’

‘Well then.’ The little circle grew quiet as the choreographer paused, deciding how to begin. ‘None of us had any idea where this ballet was going to end up when we started making it. Least of all me. But it turns out that when you have two spectacular dancers, and get them dressed by a fashion prodigy, good things happen. We do our best work for each other. It’s created something really, genuinely good. And now that I’ve said all that, I guess I’d better give a shout-out to our enablers.’ She sat back and raised her glass, drawing them all in with her eyes. ‘To the people who pay us to do what we love.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’

‘Doing what we love.’

‘Praise the sponsors.’

Everyone clinked solemnly. ‘Start thinking,’ whispered Lexa as she refilled Clarke’s glass.

‘Why?’

‘It’ll be your turn in a minute.’

It was clearly a familiar ritual because the next to speak was Lincoln, to Anya’s left, grinning and saluting his partner across the table. ‘To ballerinas who won’t give up.’

‘And the men who have to lift them.’

‘The choreographers who make them do it,’ put in Octavia.

‘The designers who make sure they don’t look stupid.’

Clarke winked at Octavia. ‘And the people who keep them sane.’

‘That’s sweet, but all I did was give you a kick up the ass after you told Le...I mean, whenever you need it. Generally.’ Octavia ignored Lexa’s elegantly arched eyebrow and hesitated, wine in hand, uncharacteristically shy. ‘I never thought that I was good enough to be in a ballet company, _any_ ballet company, let alone this one. None of my teachers told me I should audition. And if Kane hadn’t been at my showcase and followed up on me, and if Indra hadn’t given me the time of day, and if Lexa hadn’t told me to separate my fingers and remember that I had a face - although you could have phrased that less confusingly -’

‘Sorry.’

‘Well, it worked. I got lucky. Sometimes it freaks me out, how lucky I got. So. I guess that’s it.’ Octavia raised her glass. ‘To luck.’

‘To luck.’

It rang true for all of them, in different ways - Clarke remembered Lexa in bed that morning, _I didn’t do a single thing to make this happen_ \- and even Anya looked reflective. Lexa had obviously had the same thought, swirling the wine around her glass before putting it back very deliberately on the table. ‘You all know how lucky I was to get here. Not just getting here, either - getting paired with Lincoln, and being in Indra’s sightline when they needed to throw someone on, and Anya sticking with me even though I wouldn’t talk to her for weeks after I arrived.’

‘Maybe I liked you better that way,’ said Anya gruffly.

Lexa flicked a stray leaf of parsley at her. ‘I’m lucky to have this life. It’s given me everything, and it’s made me happy. But…’ She shrugged a shoulder almost imperceptibly. ‘New things are good. And it’s hard to seek them out when you spend nine tenths of your time either in the theater or asleep. So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m grateful we got to make this new work when we did, because my world is bigger as a result, and I think I really needed that. There it is. To newcomers and new experiences.’

‘Newcomers.’

‘Who are you, and what have you done with Lexa Woods?’

‘Sap,’ said Lincoln affectionately.

‘Moron.’ Lexa quirked an eyebrow at Clarke as they toasted. ‘Anything to add?’

Clarke imagined Octavia watching and wishing from the back row of the theater; Anya with a broken leg; Lincoln dancing alone; Lexa crushed, _how terrible it is to be in love and still be wrong for each other,_ out of the studio for months and months as everything came crashing down at once. She remembered Lexa’s cold, closed face that day in the dressing room, the truce in the stairwell, the careful, melting way she’d kissed. The sound of thousands of people rising to their feet. The last, perfect line of a sketch. The smell of flowers.

She raised her glass. ‘To second chances.’

‘Second chances.’

Anya nodded gravely. ‘May we never run out of them.’

 

***

 

The restaurant was a few blocks from Lexa’s building in the general direction of Clarke’s apartment, so Clarke walked the ballerina home, feeling about sixteen years old. The city was nice on a Sunday night. Less frenetic than a Saturday, they passed couples on dates and groups of girlfriends, cops leaning against their cars, families on the way home from the cinema and bar staff coming off early shift.

Clarke had seen Lexa offer Anya a cigarette on the sidewalk outside the restaurant and watched them share it in silence, the last secret revealed, a final forgiveness of everything that had been said and done. She had hugged Octavia so hard the tears came, either from sheer pride or because her ribs were cracking. She had seen Lexa and Lincoln squeeze each other’s hands, no words needed after ten years, and she had smiled like a proud mother as he and Octavia walked off together. Lexa had risked her life hailing a cab for Anya. And that had just left the two of them.

The ballerina looked positively dangerous at night. It was the beautiful hair, and the eyeliner, the directness of her gaze, the way she demanded attention with the way she carried herself and the effortless, imperious set of her jaw; the way it all softened when she smiled. It was because Clarke wanted all of it, couldn’t get enough of it, knew she never would.

‘So, this is me.’

‘Nice place.’

‘You should see the bedroom.’

‘That was terrible.’

‘I had to try it, though.’ Lexa tilted her head so their foreheads were touching, fingertips dancing up Clarke’s arms, skimming her shoulders, soft against her neck. ‘Want another drink?’

‘I shouldn’t…’

‘You should.’

‘I have things to do.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Almost today.’ But she could have stood in that circle of light forever.

‘Go on,’ coaxed the ballerina, eyes warm with promise, ‘it’s just Monday.’

In a few hours Lexa would be back in the studio, analyzing and correcting and perfecting, creating moment after beautiful moment that no one but she and Lincoln would ever see, the way she had every day for ten years previous and would do for ten years after. Clarke had three conference calls, an interview, hundreds if not thousands of emails, but it was all worth it for the hours it let her spend with her mind on color, line, texture; taking a thing that existed in her head and making it real. Everything would be the same. So much would be different.

‘Stay,’ Lexa whispered.

And she did, she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're a new reader, thank you. If you've been sticking with me patiently all this time (you know who you are), thank you even more. I've read and loved every single comment and tumblr message - I started off writing this fic for myself, because I honestly had no expectation that anyone would ever read it, but now I also write for you guys, because it means the world when people enjoy it, or find that it helps them. Thank you thank you thank you. 
> 
> /end sappy speech
> 
> BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE! 
> 
> Unless you're reading this within literally a minute of posting, you can now click through to the SEQUEL. I KNOW. The idea for it came to me in a dream (#blessed) and I couldn't let it go so here we are. It will be a touch angstier than BR but the angst is very much of a 'our heroes unite to defeat the common enemy' variety so please don't worry. My three part promise is that a) nobody dies, b) there's a happy ending, and c) everyone who's in love stays in love. 
> 
> Love you guys. Stay in touch.

**Author's Note:**

> Say hi on tumblr @southsouthwest


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